Tom and Hermione's Excellent Vacation
by LeighaGreene
Summary: This is utter crack. It's what happens when you get writer's block and then decide to write the 'epilogue' to your AU as a married!Tomione time-travel fix-it fic, when you're only halfway through the third book of seven. It is not necessary to have read Mary Potter to enjoy this fic. Happy (Belated) Tomione Day 2016.
1. Chapter 1

**[AN: This is utter crack. It's what happens when you get writer's block and then decide to write the 'epilogue' to your AU as a married!Tomione time-travel fix-it fic, when you're only halfway through the third book of seven. It's been done for months, and I just found out that Tomione Day is a thing, so I figured I'd publish it. You do NOT need to have read Mary Potter to enjoy this story, though it does take place in a (rather unlikely) possible future of that universe.]**

* * *

 **Tom and Hermione's Excellent Vacation**

AKA: The story of how AU Future Hermione and Tom Riddle kidnap… I mean _adopt_ Canon Harry.

 **Part I**

* * *

 _ **Sometime in the summer of 2010**_

 _The Trouble with Family Reunions_

 _Mary Potter Universe_

Hermione really should have known better.

Mary had only been back from her world tour of foreign magical exploration and adventuring for five years, but that should have been long enough for a witch who was often praised for her brilliance to have picked up on the fact that Mary's family gatherings always ended poorly. (Despite the fact that Mary was her adopted sister, and Sirius her former Magical Guardian, Hermione really couldn't bring herself to consider most of the Blacks and their assorted hangers-on _her_ family.)

It was extremely difficult – far moreso than Hermione thought it ought to have been – to get everyone together in the first place. They could never meet on the Major Sabbats, because Sirius, Tonks, and Dan didn't celebrate them, nor on muggle holidays, because Tom and Draco promised to whine about progressives the whole time; rarely while Hogwarts was in session, because it was too difficult for Tom and Remus to get away, and only in the evenings when the Wizengamot was in session, because Hermione, Draco, and Sirius were all busy on those days; Snape, Dan, and Mary were all self-employed, and so could normally arrange for days off whenever they pleased, but Andromeda, Tonks, and Narcissa all had unpredictable social or employment obligations.

Still, once a time and place were decided upon (and the place couldn't be too posh, nor too lowbrow, had to be open to muggles, had to be child-friendly, and Snape insisted on 'neutral territory' which meant all the Black properties were out…), things generally went alright for a couple of hours. Everyone caught up with each-other, made polite noises about the children (asked Tom and Hermione when they were planning on _having_ children), ate far too much well-catered food (or home-cooked, if Dan and Mary had the time), and had a few glasses of wine or mead or apple-juice, if they were four or pregnant. But after a certain amount of time – five and a half hours, with a standard error of fifteen minutes– the situation began to deteriorate.

Tom _claimed_ not to have cursed the concept of family reunions, but he might have been lying.

There was a striking similarity between the effects of the DADA Curse and the results of every Black (Potter, Granger, Riddle, Tonks, Lupin, Snape) Family Reunion: widely varied mayhem and disagreements, on a specific timeline, resulting in what appeared to be a random series of unfortunate events, ranging from Sirius challenging Tom to a pick-up contest at a magical pub in Dublin to Snape and Narcissa getting into a massive row over the education of Mary and Draco's unborn child. Tonks always seemed to be fighting with Remus about something, or else with her mother about her latest separation from her husband and the effect Andromeda was _certain_ their on-again, off-again relationship must have on their son's development. Even the children often caused mayhem: on one particularly memorable occasion, Teddy completely changed his appearance and wandered away at a muggle resort hotel, and Lyra, Mary's eldest child, was especially prone to large, destructive bursts of accidental magic, which had gotten them all the wrong sort of attention at more than one muggle venue.

But nothing ever went so spectacularly wrong as when Bellatrix actually deigned to show up.

Mary always sent an invitation to Bellatrix, because Bellatrix was, undeniably, a Black, and therefore part of the family, even if she hardly ever acted like it. Since the Battle of Hogwarts, in 1998, Hermione had only seen Bellatrix three times, and each one was an unmitigated disaster. The main problem was that Bellatrix _hated_ Tom. Even Tom admitted she had good reason: his alter-ego had turned her into a mind-slave from the age of five, apprenticed her at age eight, had her take the Dark Mark at fifteen, then let her spend the next fifteen years or so doing all the grunt work of running the Death Eaters before getting himself mostly-killed and letting her rot in Azkaban for more than a decade.

Hermione, however, thought that Bellatrix should take into consideration the fact that _her_ Tom – Tom who had spent six and a half years in a diary, who had grown up a bit and decided to take a less destructive, more effective road to power – was not the same man who had casually planted compulsions in the brain of a likely overactive, exceedingly irritating five-year-old. (Hermione assumed that the woman's personality hadn't changed all that much: she was still ridiculously hyper and irritating, and had the attention-span of a gnat.) Tom's openly admitting that he probably would have done resulted in Tonks, Remus, and Andromeda whisking the young Teddy away too quickly for Hermione to even say goodbye. It was nearly a year before they dared attend another function with him, and that was only after they made Tom swear an unbreakable vow not to mess with the little metamorph's mind. That was the _first_ encounter with Bellatrix.

The second time, the Black Mage insinuated that Hermione had better guard against Tom leaving her for a younger woman (Bellatrix had been only sixteen, after all, when the forty-year-old Voldemort had taken up with her, and after his second resurrection, Hermione was somewhere around thirty years younger than her own version of the man). When that failed to get a rise out of either of them, Bellatrix had picked a fight with Snape, who always treated her with the only-barely-disguised hostility otherwise reserved for Sirius, which resulted in a duel. Hermione, as Snape's former apprentice, had been honor-bound to fight the madwoman when he was incapacitated, and when she was injured as well, Tom gave up his façade of indifference to challenge her himself. This was, so far as Hermione was concerned, perfectly acceptable behavior, especially coming from her overly-possessive husband. What was _not_ acceptable was the fact that after he fought Bellatrix to a stand-still, he continued to torture her for a good ten minutes, all the while fending off everyone else's attempts to get him to stop. (Thankfully, Tonks had taken Teddy home as soon as Bellatrix showed up, or else Hermione doubted she would ever have seen the kid again.)

The third time Bellatrix had shown up (earlier that day, or, well, the gods only knew when, really), she had thrown something shiny at Hermione – something Hermione could now identify as a small triangular pyramid made of polished obsidian and inlaid with hundreds of tiny, golden runes. It had cut straight through the shield she conjured to block its flight, and as soon as it touched her, wrenched her out of the universe with a sensation which was disconcertingly similar to a portkey crossed with a time-turner. Closer examination of the runes only confirmed that impression.

Still lying on the ground, to which she had fallen (due partially to the unfortunate fact that she had been seated when she was abducted, but more to the fact that she had been forcibly repelled from an anti-portkey ward), Hermione decided that was it. She was _never_ going to another Black Family Function.

…

"Umm… Bella," Mary said hesitantly, looking at the chair her adopted sister had so-recently occupied as she struggled with the rambunctious two-year-old on her hip. "Where did Hermione go?"

Bellatrix shrugged. "Alternate Universe, I expect. I built a randomization sequence into the portkey array, though, so I'm not sure which one. Have you all ordered yet?"

Every person over the age of seven turned to stare at the Black witch, their expressions ranging from confusion to rage to fear.

"Bellatrix," Tom said, in a dangerously pleasant tone, "if you don't tell me _precisely_ what you have done to my wife in the next thirty seconds, I _will_ extract the information from you by the most painful means I can devise."

Bella gave him a mad grin. "Oh, goodie! I love this game!"

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **4 November, 1991**_

 _Inconvenient Faffing About_

 _Harry Potter Universe_

In a field somewhere in Britain, at an as-yet-unknown time, Hermione decided that as a responsible member of the Magical British community, she truly ought to at least look about and see whether any muggles had spotted her sudden and inexplicable appearance.

The answer, she decided, was probably _no_. After all, those awful white peacocks could belong to no one but the Malfoys, and they were most definitely the sort to put up muggle-repelling wards.

 _Okay, then_ , she thought, _that's one bit sorted_. A quick _tempus_ charm revealed the next bit: the date was the fourth of November, 1991.

Lacking a return… enchanted time-portkey _thing_ , interdimensional time travel was a ritual trick best attempted on Yule, which meant she had quite a lot of time to kill before she could attempt to make her way back home. _Bug all,_ she grumped silently.

She struggled to her feet with a groan, wishing fervently that she had spent less time in the past ten years on magical theory and law, and more on perfecting the art of casting healing spells on oneself, and wracking her brain in an effort to figure out why _this_ date ought to have been significant.

 _Ah_ , she thought, her mind alighting on a bit of trivia. _That was probably it._

She cast a facsimile of the Dark Mark at her left arm, wincing at the burn of it – no mere illusion, but enough magic to stand up to the examination of an actual Death Eater – and began trekking toward the manor-house, barely visible through the trees.

…

Narcissa answered the door herself. Hermione supposed she must have been terribly bored, or perhaps lonely, now that Draco was off to school. She nearly giggled to see the stuck-up pureblood ice-queen Lady Malfoy had been nearly five years before they first met. For one thing, they looked to be nearly the same age now. And for another, they had reached a level of familiarity over the years that let Hermione clearly read her curiosity behind her indifferent mask.

Instead she properly tendered her greetings and requested an audience with the woman's husband.

"It's regarding the Dark Lord's business," she added, when Narcissa hesitated, and was reluctantly shown into a parlor.

…

Lucius Malfoy was not best pleased when his assigned task was interrupted by a house elf summoning him to the Small Receiving Room. He had only just started informing the Dark Lord's Horcrux – and who even _made_ horcruxes, anyway? – about the circumstances which led him to write in it, a job which he preferred to complete as quickly as possible. He wouldn't be bothering at all, save for the fact that if it turned out the Dark Lord, whom Lucius was certain was not truly gone, managed to find some _other_ way of returning to power and discovered that he failed to follow orders, Lucius would be a dead man walking.

But Narcissa had used the code-word that meant urgent-for-the-future-of-the-family, can't-wait, no-nonsense _business_ , so make his way to the Small Receiving Room he did.

There was a witch waiting for him. If he had to guess, he would have put her in her early thirties. He took in her short, wildly curly brown hair and lack of extensive makeup, well-tailored but modestly-expensive robes, and somewhat harried, exasperated expression with a cool glance. A clerk of some sort, perhaps, or a minor Ministry official, doubtless on an errand for someone more important, given the urgency of Narcissa's summons.

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor," he greeted her, bowing correctly. "I don't believe we have been introduced. I am Lucius, Lord of the Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy."

The witch rose from the chaise lounge upon which she had perched and curtsied in turn, extending her left hand prettily. At least, he thought, whomever had sent her had chosen a well-trained messenger-bird. "Well met, Lord Malfoy. I am Hermione of the Minor House of Riddle."

Lucius did not recall the House of Riddle, but he did not make a point of memorizing the name of _every_ minor pureblood family. Her observation of the proprieties spoke well enough for her breeding, anyway. As such it would unfortunately not be polite to simply demand she state her business and be done with it. "Well met. May I offer you refreshment, Ms. Riddle?"

"Tea would be lovely, Lord Malfoy."

Tea was, in fact, not lovely, but rather stilted and stiff. Halfway through his first cup, at the absolute earliest propriety allowed, he cracked. "Might I enquire as to what business has brought you to my door, Ms. Riddle?"

The witch stilled, then settled her teacup in its saucer before meeting his eyes solidly. "It has come to my attention, Lord Malfoy, that you are in possession of a certain diary…"

…

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione disapparated from Malfoy Manor, a slim, leatherbound book in her pocket and a grim smile on her face, thinking that if _Lucius_ had been one of the Dark Lord's best Death Eaters, it was no wonder he had been so easily defeated. The bloody idiot hadn't even bothered to check whether she was Marked before handing over the Horcrux. _Anyone_ could have walked right in claiming to be an agent of the Dark Lord. Shoddy work, that's what _that_ was. She made a mental note to mock Voldemort about his choice of servants before executing him.

There was, of course, no question that she would execute him. There were only three people in this time whose lives she cared to change: one was trapped in a book; one was unfairly locked in Azkaban; and one was a target of a mad, undead Dark Lord. As long as she was faffing about in the past (and now an alternate universe, if it hadn't been before), she might as well have _something_ to do to pass the time.

…

The first thing Hermione did on apparating away from the Malfoys was… _acquire_ a not-insubstantial cheque from a very rude London executive sort with the help of a minor compulsion and a Confundus Charm. She did not, generally speaking, condone thievery, especially stealing from muggles with magic. It was something she had reprimanded Tom for on more than one occasion. But needs must, and all that. Plus he _was_ very rude.

After quick stop at the nearest Lloyds and another at Gringotts, Mr. Mason's pounds found themselves supplementing the meagre collection of galleons Hermione had seen fit to bring with her to Mary's ill-fated dinner party. This was a necessary step because her second act was to take a room at a small Knockturn Alley inn called, suitably enough, the Nocturne Inn. It was owned by an old squib and catered mostly to the 'sapient dark creatures' crowd – werewolves, vampires, hags, and so on. It was the sort of place where everyone minded their own business so long as they paid up-front, which she did.

She had intended for her third step to be acquiring a new wardrobe and other daily essentials, with an eye toward finding a way to get into Hogwarts after Quirrellmort, without tipping off Dumbledore or anyone else that she was from The Future(-ish), but this plan was derailed by a chance glimpse at the Daily Prophet as she headed toward Peaseblossom and Puck's. The Headline? _Boy-Who-Lived Saves Muggleborn from Troll_.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **5 November, 1991** _

_"I'm your wife. From the future. And an alternate universe."_

 _Hello, Tom. My name is Hermione Granger. Today's date is 5 November 1991._

 ** _Hello, Hermione. May I ask what happened to Lucius? Did he tell you how this diary works?_**

 _Lucius is fine. I mean, he's a bloody idiot – I have to say, I find your alter-ego's taste in minions leaves something to be desired. He just handed over this horcrux without even checking to see whether I had a Dark Mark. I've left him safely at his little manor house to do… whatever rich idiots do all day. Frankly I've no idea. And no, there is nothing he could possibly have told me about this diary that I didn't already know._

 ** _Who_** ** _are_** ** _you?_**

 _Hmmm… funny story, that. I'm your wife._

 ** _What?_**

 ** _I haven't got a wife_** ** _!_**

 _From the future._

 ** _…?_**

 _And an alternate universe._

 ** _?_**

 _You, or rather, your counterpart in my home-universe, escaped this journal when I was thirteen (1993) through what I gather was a rather ad hoc re-embodiment ritual, and spent several years at Miskatonic before returning to become the Hogwarts DADA instructor (_ _finally)_ _in 1997. You stripped the mind of your alter-ego at the end of that year and we (you, me, your granddaughter, and a couple friends of ours) re-incarnated you properly a few months later._

 ** _Wait. WHAT?_**

 _Hmmm… the 'original' Tom Riddle went on to make four additional horcruxes as well as to travel extensively in Europe and Asia, pursuing numerous alternative methods of obtaining immortality and knowledge before returning to Magical Britain. After 1955, he created a cult of personality under the name 'Lord Voldemort.' So far as we have gathered, he spent most of his time a) placating his followers by launching deliberately-overly-complex attacks on the wizarding and muggle governments b) harassing Albus Dumbledore c) torturing and killing muggles and muggleborns indiscriminately and d) experimenting with Dark Arts, ritual magic, alternative uses of runes, enchanting, time travel… basically anything that caught your fancy, apparently._

 ** _Um…_**

 _What went wrong? In 1980, a prophecy was made that 'one who has the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born(e) as the seventh month dies.' Voldemort's spy only overheard that much, and due to a particularly obtuse and literal interpretation on Dumbledore's part and his subsequent actions, V. identified Mary Potter as the most likely candidate to be the prophesied 'one.' The Potters were in hiding, but were discovered in 1981, and V. rushed to destroy their infant daughter, disregarding the fact that it was Samhain eve. Bit of advice: don't try to sell your soul for knowledge if it's already damaged – some demons will cheerfully take your sanity instead._

 _Now, it is relevant to note here that in 1959, in pursuit of eternal youth and a dramatically increased healing factor, V. sacrificed his ability to have children to the Destructive Power in the course of a ritual which, ironically, resulted in the conception of a child. V. left the child's mother to die in a fire, but she managed to escape and found her way to a muggle hospital. The child, a girl called Lily, was placed with muggle relatives for her safety as an infant, attended Hogwarts as a muggleborn, joined the struggle against V., and eventually married pureblood James Potter. It was their daughter, his own granddaughter, whom V. tried to kill in 1981._

 _Lily Potter, by all accounts, took after her father, or what he might have been, given a happier and more supportive upbringing. In addition to sacrificing herself to protect her infant daughter, she also wrote an invocation ward which called upon Adrestia to visit justice upon anyone who dared attempt violence against her child. V's Killing Curse struck the child, carrying off Lily's soul before the protection ritual had time to settle, and the Justice ward utterly destroyed V's body in retaliation. V's own soul and life-spark, unable to move on due to the horcruxes, was pulled into Lily's soul-protection ritual. He managed to tear himself free, damaging his life-spark in the process, and fled._

 _Presumably it was the same in this universe, but with_ _Harry_ _Potter instead of_ _Mary_ _Potter._

 _In 1991, V's shade – the remains of his soul and life spark – managed to possess the Hogwarts DADA instructor and infiltrate the castle in an effort to obtain the Philosopher's Stone. In 1992, Lucius Malfoy slipped (the counterpart of) this diary to a first-year Gryffindor, who opened the Chamber of Secrets and did (briefly) manage to have Dumbledore expelled from the school. He's the Headmaster now. Sorry, I know you hate him. As I've said, in 1993 your counterpart managed to acquire a body, and apparently decided that V. was a complete idiot, but potentially too dangerous to approach directly at that time, given the fact that he did have forty-odd years' experience on you. In 1995, V. built a new body – via life alchemy, I think – and recalled his Death Eaters. He spent most of the 1995-1996 school year attempting to access the full wording of the prophecy to see where he had gone wrong. I tricked him in 1996 into agreeing to exchange said prophecy for a truce: a year and a day. He spent the next year recruiting, then instigated a series of escalating attacks beginning in the summer of 1997. My friends and I, meanwhile, destroyed the other horcruxes. He attacked Hogwarts in 1998, where he was defeated by your counterpart, and struck down from behind by a Killing Curse._

 ** _This all sounds… entirely mad, you do realize?_**

 _Oh, yes. And it was. Believe me, I lived it. Anyway, your counterpart and I had begun a clandestine affair in 1997. I was his student, but also 19-ish due to a certain degree of time-travelling in my third year. Over the course of that year, it became clear that the body he created in 1993 was deteriorating much more quickly than anticipated. After the battle in 1998, with the knowledge he had stolen from your alter-ego, we created a new, more stable body for him. He took up the DADA position and Head of Slytherin House with a new name and an older face, and had worked his way up to Deputy Headmaster by 2010. I went into law, and acted as Mary's Wizengamot Proxy while she travelled the world. Your counterpart joined mine and Draco Malfoy's political alliance in 1998. We married in 2008 because he is a possessive, persistent bastard, and I didn't have a good reason to say no. I kept my maiden name, though. This is the 21_ _st_ _Century, after all. Um. Will be._

 ** _I… I think I need some time to process all that. I'm… it's just so…_**

 _I find it helps if you think of V. as your evil(er) twin. Also, drop the hesitant child façade – it doesn't suit._

 ** _Evil_** ** _er_** ** _? You wound me._**

 _I try._

 ** _I think I might like you._**

 _I should_ _hope_ _so._

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **16 November, 1991** _

_"On a quest."_

Hermione had been in 1991 in what she was privately thinking of as 'Harry's Universe' for almost two weeks, chatting with Tom in the Diary (who was strangely like and not-like her own Tom, and seemed _very_ young), collecting horcruxes (the Gaunt ring and Slytherin's locket had been absurdly easy to access, between her familiarity with Tom's warding preferences and a false Dark Mark – at least Walburga Black had _checked_ before she handed over the necklace) and trying to suss out all the little differences between this world and her own.

For the most part, they seemed… similar.

At first, seeing that headline in Diagon Alley, she had thought that perhaps Neville had been the Boy Who Lived from the start, here, as well as the "Prophesied Savior" instead of Mary being the _Girl_ Who Lived. As it turned out, however, the Boy was _Harry_ Potter, born to James and Lily Potter on 31 July, 1980. He, like Mary, had survived a killing curse at the age of one (and three months), then disappeared, likely with the dubious "help" of Headmaster Dumbledore, since he had been produced to attend his first year at Hogwarts.

Harry Potter was a Gryffindor, according to the papers, like his parents, as was the muggleborn girl he had allegedly saved from a troll: one Hermione Granger. Hermione recalled having teetered on the brink of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor for several minutes under the Hat, so perhaps her placement there was not such a surprise, but she could not imagine Mary placed anywhere but Slytherin. Harry, she thought, must be quite different, to be the sort of boy who goes running after trolls.

Speaking of which, she _distinctly_ recalled that, in her world, the troll had not gotten anywhere near students. The Slytherins had evacuated outside, and the other houses, both Ravenclaw and Gryffindor included, had returned safely to their dorms, using the smallest, most inaccessible corridors their prefects knew. She herself had not seen a troll until she and Lili had chased Quirrell and Snape into the third-floor Obstacle Course at the end of the year.

The Hogwarts Rolls had been posted in one of the September Prophets, however, and all the other students seemed to be the same sexes she remembered, and sorted into the same houses. Sirius Black was still in Azkaban, and Remus Lupin had disappeared from wizarding society ten years before. Cornelius Fudge was the Minister of Magic, and John Major was the PM, all as it should be, or at least as she had expected.

Dan and Emma Granger still owned a successful orthodontics and oral surgery clinic in Maidstone; Emma was still alive and able to be visited, though after a week of second-guessing herself, Hermione had firmly decided against doing so: She had come to terms with her mother's death more than a decade prior, and had no desire to dredge up the past. Besides, what was she supposed to do? Tell them that she was their adult daughter from an alternate future, lost in the time-stream? They had only known of magic for a few months. Dan would think it a great story – like something out of Dr. Who – but Emma would immediately begin to question everything that had happened in the past twenty years, and Hermione could see it becoming far too complicated all too quickly. Not to mention that she would either want to stay forever, when she definitely had a life to return to in 2010 in her own universe, or they would have nothing in common, which might be worse. And seeing them _without_ talking to them openly would be far worse than not seeing them at all. All in all, it would be better to just stay away.

To that end, twelve days after arriving in 1991, she had decided that it was time to make a visit to Hogwarts, in an effort to discover exactly why _only_ those three details – Mary's sex and sorting; Young Hermione's sorting; and the fact that the two of them had been threatened by a troll – appeared to be different between Hermione's universe and this one.

Completely aside from the matter of her own curiosity, she needed to verify that Sirius Black was innocent in this world before she let him out of Azkaban, and check that Quirrell, who was indeed the DADA professor this year, had been possessed by Voldemort. This necessitated breaking into the castle to capture Ron Weasley's pet rat and cast a few diagnostic charms at the be-turbaned Professor. Plus she ought to retrieve the Diadem of Ravenclaw from the Room of Requirement.

Hermione could not help but feel a bit nostalgic for her own school days. There was something about sneaking around Hogwarts performing absurd tasks in the dead of night in order to save the day that made her feel like a kid again.

On a _quest_.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _30 November, 1991_**

 _Differences_

Hogwarts was not especially difficult to break into. Sirius had managed to do it twice, while half out of his mind, with dementors at the perimeter and no wand to hand. For a sane, experienced witch who had arguably spent as many hours sneaking around and getting into trouble as she had studying at school (she blamed the Slytherins… and the Weasleys… and Tom… okay, maybe _she_ wasn't _entirely_ blameless), it was almost too easy. Even gaining entry to Gryffindor Tower was pathetically simple. All she had to do was maintain a combination of Translucency and Disillusionment Charms (the combined effect of which was closer to invisibility than anything else short of Mary's cloak) while a student gave the password to the portrait, then clamber through the doorway behind them.

This was the third time Hermione had ventured into the castle. It had been easy enough, the first time she had visited, to collect the Diadem (which had been _Avada_ 'd as soon as she had it outside Hogwarts' wards, had joined the Locket and the Ring in a warded, shrunken box, and now lived in her pocket with Diary Tom) and verify that Quirrell was, indeed, possessed. Ronald Weasley, however, had not brought his rat to the common room at any point on either of her two previous visits, and she preferred not to risk the chance that there were wards against non-professorial, adult women entering the Gryffindor boys' dorms to hunt it down. (On the whole, she thought that a dimension-hopping time-traveler from twenty years in the future breaking into a boys' dorm to have a look at a rat sounded somewhat less plausible even than an Azkaban escapee doing the same.)

Thus for the third Saturday in a row, Hermione Granger was sitting in a corner of the Gryffindor Common Room, surrounded by Avoidance and Notice-Me-Not Charms, observing her younger counterpart and that of her oldest friend.

She did not like what she was seeing.

The Young Hermione was every bit as much of a swot as Hermione recalled from her own first and second years. The Ravenclaw prefects and her year-mates had been fairly understanding of this tendency, and even outside of Mary, Lilian, and Aerin, she had had many casual acquaintances, who later became good friends. Here, however, instead of joining in study sessions with her peers and getting tips on how to write better essays or _apply_ her vast knowledge of facts from older housemates, Young Hermione sat alone with her books. Hermione only ever saw her younger counterpart speak to two people: Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, and even then, their conversations revolved around only two topics: Ronald attempting to badger Young Hermione into helping with the boys' homework, and identifying Nicholas Flamel. She would hardly have called it an acquaintanceship, herself, but at a guess, she would have said that Young Hermione was lonely, and pathetically grateful for even such limited friendship as the boys offered.

She didn't precisely blame Harry and Ronald for being better friends with each other than with Young Hermione – they were, after all, eleven-year-old boys – but neither of them seemed to have any interests at all in Young Hermione as a person. Both their attitude and Young Hermione's apparent obtuseness to the situation irked the time-traveler. The first two years of her Hogwarts experience had, in hindsight, polished off a lot of her own rough edges – with Lilian's encouragement she had toned down the obnoxious hand-waving and nagging for attention, and the close friendship she had had with Mary gave her a sense of security she had never had in primary school, that she was valued for more than her ability to answer all the homework questions correctly, such that she was not nearly so compelled to show off her knowledge at all times. Both of the Slytherin girls had helped her learn to assimilate into Magical Britain, just as Mary did. She worried that without similar positive relationships, her young counterpart would grow up to be terribly unhappy and misunderstood in the house of the lions, not to mention the wider wizarding world.

She looked at Percy Weasley as the ghost of Young Hermione's Christmas Future and winced at the sight.

Even worse than the sight of an extremely isolated Young Hermione, however, was the appearance of Harry Potter. Did none of his classmates, prefects, or teachers see that he wore muggle clothing, three sizes too large, under his robes? That his trainers were coming apart at the seams? Did they not notice that he never spoke of his foster family? Did they not care that he was appallingly ignorant about the magical world and his place in it? If they did, they said nothing. All they seemed to recognize was that he had won them their first Quidditch match of the season (What were they thinking, putting a first-year on the House team?); fought a troll; and was generally living up to their expectations for the Gryffindor Boy Who Lived.

There was a distinct hint of hero-worship in many of his peers' eyes which made her decidedly uncomfortable.

A bit of poking around at the Ministry the week after her first visit to the school revealed that Harry had no personal Magical Guardian – only the Office of Child Welfare – which meant Minerva had never taken him away from his abusive muggle relatives. Hermione, recalling the way Dumbledore had attempted to manipulate Neville's grandmother into forcing him into dangerous situations like the Tournament, had to wonder whether Harry's continued isolation from the magical world was the old goat's fault. He had been the one to place both Mary and Harry with the Dursleys, hidden by the Chief Mugwump in an undisclosed location as a 'national treasure.' She knew he hadn't been pleased about Mary slowly slipping through his fingers over the years, and he hadn't even thought that she was the prophesied savior. If she knew Bumbles (and she liked to think she did, albeit primarily through Snape's stories), he would be clinging tightly to any hold he had over Harry Potter.

And, she thought sardonically, it wouldn't be difficult to maintain such a hold. Harry seemed nearly as isolated as Young Hermione, always sitting only with Ronald, or off at Quidditch practice, though he hardly seemed to talk to the rest of the team when they were in the common room, let alone his yearmates. She never saw him instigate an interaction. Mary had been shy, too, at first, but between Hermione, Lilian and Aerin Moon, Morgana Yaxley, and the Weasley twins, she had at least been on speaking terms with a few people in multiple years in three houses. Ronald, if Hermione recalled correctly, had been friends with Neville Longbottom in her own world, and had been involved in several of the twins' pranks before she started associating with them. Here, though, he seemed content to while away the hours with Harry alone, the two making no effort to make connections within or outside of their House.

It might have been a product of her spending all of her time with Slytherins, but she couldn't help but worry for the three children cutting themselves off from their peers and all the potential resources they could provide. Plus both Harry and Young Hermione seemed to be succumbing to the wizarding world's general prejudice against common sense: neither of them seemed to have thought to simply ask around after Nicholas Flamel. Ronald, who had been raised by wizards, she thought, might be excused, but there was no reason her own younger counterpart should have thought it more efficient to read every book in the library rather than asking for help.

…

Finally, after nearly twenty hours of observation and mulling over the problems of Harry and Young Hermione, Ronald brought his rat down from the boys' dormitory, apparently as an object to test his Color Changing Charm. After perhaps thirty minutes, he succeeded in turning it a hideous shade of orange, after which it was allowed to curl up on the arm of the couch and go to sleep. Hermione cast a Notice-Me-Not on it before following up with an Animagus Revealing Charm.

Had she been visible, the bared teeth of her triumphant grin might have scared more than a few young Gryffindors: sixteen years after her first attempt to capture the wretched creature, Peter Pettigrew was finally within her reach.

A quick Sedation Spell (an advanced, colorless variation of the Stunning Charm) and Summoning Charm later, the Rat was unceremoniously stuffed into a pocket. Hermione followed the Weasley twins as they left the common room, no doubt on their way to prank some poor Slytherin or Hufflepuff, and let herself out of the Castle through the passage which most quickly led to the edge of the Apparition Ward.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **10 December, 1991**_

 _Two Birds with One Sacrifice_

 ** _What do you mean, you are destroying the horcruxes?_**

 _Exactly that. Voldemort must be destroyed –_ _completely_ _destroyed – and the only way to do that is to destroy his anchors to this world._

 ** _You can't!_** ** _I'm one of them!_**

 _I know._

 ** _You don't want to murder me – I know you don't!_**

 _No, I don't. That's the problem. I_ _want_ _to get you out of this book – break the connection between you and Voldemort, make you swear an Unbreakable Vow not to attempt a violent revolution, and let you have your second chance._

 _I also don't want to commit murder to do it._

 ** _How did my counterpart manage it?_**

 _Killed the Basilisk and used its magic to power a ritual he made up on the spot. I couldn't replicate it if I wanted to. And besides, that body only lasted about five years before it started seriously deteriorating._

 ** _If we're to break the connection between myself and the Idiot, the problem is the life-spark. What about the vampire ritual?_**

 _That requires a human sacrifice, and you know it._

 _Plus somehow I don't think you'd be up for a lifelong dependency on human blood._

 ** _Couldn't be much different than a lifelong dependency on food in general, could it?_**

 _Fine, I stand corrected. Creepy bastard._

 ** _How did the_** ** _second_** ** _reincarnation work?_**

 _We still needed a sacrifice, but we used a Kissed Death Eater._

 ** _Clever._**

 _Thank you. But there are no convenient victims this time._

 ** _Could you not just kidnap some reprehensible criminal?_**

 _No. I'll think of something else. I think I'm going to need more time, though. It's less than two weeks until Yule, and I still haven't gotten the Cup or the Scar or you, let alone looked into a ritual to take me back._

 ** _I can't believe you just AK'd the others._**

 _They were feral. Definitely non-sentient. And I_ _really_ _want Voldemort dead._

 ** _Have you decided what to do with the rat and your convict yet?_**

 _I've been looking into the state of things at the ministry and doing a bit of prognostication since I caught the little bit of filth. It looks like there's about a 25% chance that approaching either Amelia Bones or Dumbledore could result in Sirius' name being cleared, but there's a much greater chance that the general corruption of the Ministry and the Wizengamot will result in the trial being botched or thrown out._

 ** _Kill the rat to resurrect me; break your prisoner out; transfigure the dead rat to look like the convict; help the convict start a new life in America._**

 _I'll think about it._

 ** _What's to think about? It solves both problems at once._**

 _Your plans always seem like good ideas, but they almost always have holes and require improvisation by the end._

 _And in my experience, improvising tends to be rather hit or miss._

 _I really don't want to gamble with your life._

 ** _Well, I can't say I really disagree with that sentiment. But I_** ** _am_** ** _willing to take a risk or two if it means getting out of this damned book._**

 _I'll keep that in mind._

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **12 December, 1991**_

 _"I've come to offer you a choice."_

Sirius Black, in the form of Padfoot, whined as he sensed the approach of a Patronus Charm, and painfully forced himself back into his human shape. Even with the Dementors driven away for the moment, this shape reminded him more strongly of his failings. He would rather stay a dog forever than think even once more of how his decisions had destroyed everything. But he couldn't. If anyone found out about Padfoot, they would take him away. He had to hide Padfoot – the dog was his only hope of remaining relatively sane.

A witch approached, with a silver fox snarling silently at the dementors that followed her. She held a cage in one hand, and in it, a rat. _The_ rat, Sirius realized, as she came nearer.

"Hello, Sirius," she said gently, opening the door to his cell and kneeling beside him on the cold stone floor. "My name is Hermione, and I've come to offer you a choice."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _17 December, 1991_**

 _If Journals Could Pout_

 _Tom, will you stop being such a baby about this? I'm still planning to find a way to free you. I'm just not going to kill someone to do it._

 ** _Like binding his magic and leaving him in Azkaban alive was kinder. No. Still not speaking to you._**

 _Whatever gave you the impression I cared about being_ _kind_ _? The simple fact is, I'm not a killer._

 ** _Liar._**

 _Just because I have killed before doesn't mean I enjoy it or want to do it again. I've grown up since I was sixteen – enough to realize that there is value in a human life aside from the power it can provide as a ritual sacrifice._

 _You know what, you don't have to talk back. You can just listen. Like a normal journal._

 ** _No._**

 _Too bad. How are you going to stop me?_

 ** _I hate you._**

 _I introduced Sirius Black to Dr. Wilson today, and Dr. Wilson to Magical Britain – her son is a wizard, and will be attending Hogwarts in a couple of years. I'm sure McGonagall will be pleased to have one less panicking muggle parent on her hands come summer after next. Dr. Wilson specializes in childhood developmental psychology, but she did a decent job with Sirius in my world, so I figure I might as well let her have a crack at him here as well._

It only took about three more hours of scribbled 'chatter' before Tom gave in and decided to speak to her again. He never was very good at giving her the silent treatment.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **18 December, 1991**_

 _Sometimes You Just Have to Ask Politely_

"Head Manager Keystone, my thanks for agreeing to see me," Hermione said, her tongue tripping over the unfamiliar syllables of Gobbledygook. Magical languages – especially speaking them – never had been her strong suit, but for the sake of negotiations, she was willing to make a fool of herself in front of the goblin who was responsible for all of Gringotts' banking business, and therefore also most of their dealings with the wizarding public. She was, so far as Hermione could tell, the closest thing the goblins had to an ambassador.

For nearly six weeks, her letters to Gringott's, requesting an audience regarding the prevention of a breach of the most recent Wizard-Goblin treaty had been bounced up and down the chain of command within the goblin nation, with one respondent telling her to address a higher authority, and then the next dismissing her plea as a waste of time. It appeared, however, that her recent ultimatum ( _meet to discuss the issue or I will bring in wizard officials, and there will be a formal inquiry – which no one truly wants_ ) had been enough to make her _somebody's_ problem, rather than eternally _somebody else's_.

"You have been most persistent," the goblin said, her face impassive. Most unfortunately, she refused to switch to English, apparently more interested in watching Hermione struggle to communicate than offended by listening to the human mangling the goblin common-tongue.

The witch soldiered on: "As is known from my missives, I am concerned about a breaking of the truce most recent. Whose fault deciding would for certain lead to war, waste of lives and… resource."

"Billiwig scatterings!" the goblin declared – a phrase, Hermione recalled, roughly equivalent to 'codswollop.' "You accuse Clan Gringotts of harboring a fugitive from wizard justice! We have done nothing of the sort!"

"Not… accuse. I warn that accuse might be made. Please allowing me to explain," she added, noting that several members of the Head Manager's retinue – guards, perhaps, or advisors – had begun to finger the weapons at their sides.

"Granted," the goblin said, in what Hermione could only presume to be a suspicious tone.

"The honorable Head Manager is knowledgeable of the downfall of the Dark Lord who called himself Voldemort, yes?"

The goblin bared her pointed teeth at the name, but said, "Naturally."

Voldemort and his people had been behind the Three Days' Rebellion in 1975. The current ruling faction among the goblins had been opposed to his rise to power long before the Wizengamot began to sit up and take notice of his campaign. Hermione would have been surprised if such a high-ranking goblin had denied such knowledge.

"And also with the belief of the leader of Hogwarts that Voldemort is not truly dead?"

"Everyone knows of Dumbledore's pet theory."

"I regret to inform that Dumbledore is correct. I have information of how Voldemort did not death. He made several _horcruxes_ … _soul_ tie… ships? Jars? I don't know the word in the common tongue…"

The Head Manager looked confused. A male goblin stepped forward, visibly uncomfortable. "Honorable Head Manager," he said with a bow to his superior, "I believe the witch refers to the product of _qied tor-serimta ruthiia_." The three _something_ ritual.

The Head Manager froze – the goblin expression of fear – and barked something at the subordinate, more quickly than Hermione could catch. The he bowed low in submission, even as he responded to what appeared to be a fierce questioning. The other guards (or advisors) jumped instantly to the alert, drawing blades and forming a protective circle around their leader. Hermione fingered her wand nervously, but refrained from drawing it with the greatest of efforts – to do so would surely see her killed.

After a very tense thirty seconds, the Head Manager turned to her guard. "Stand down," she ordered them. They hesitated. "Now!" As the circle reluctantly parted, she turned her attention back to the witch, finally speaking English. "My advisor informs that you refer to the product of the three-times-corrupted ritual – an object, near impossible to destroy, that holds a piece of the maker's torn _attunkiu tsiiu_ , what wizards call the _anima ratio_. Is this true?"

"It is, honorable one. In English, that 'product' is called a _horcrux_. It has come to my attention that a horcrux of Voldemort has come to rest in the Lestrange Family Vault."

A look of suspicion crossed the old goblin's face. "And you ask for access to the treasures of the Lestrange family, in searching for this _horcrux_? How do we know this is not a clever lie, to steal gold from Gringotts and our clients?"

"Please, honorable one – the horcrux is a cup – small and made of gold, with two handles and an impression of badgers. I propose that a goblin of Gringotts retrieve this treasure and that I be allowed to cast a single spell upon it, here, in the bank, breaking the horcrux, before it is returned to the vault."

"What spell?" the goblin asked, still suspicious.

"The Soul-Stealing Curse," Hermione replied promptly, giving the name the non-human magical beings used to refer to the Killing Curse and ducking her head in humility. "It would break the bond between the soul fragment in the horcrux and the treasure; as the honorable one is no doubt aware, it does nothing else. The treasure would be undiminished in its own value, and the remainder of the criminal Voldemort would be destroyed."

In her own universe, Mary had asked Luna to purge the horcrux in a White Arts ritual, out of concern for the ancient enchantments on the cup, but Hermione and Tom had analyzed it afterward, and she was certain that ripping the soul away from its vessel would have had a similar effect. The remaining enchantments related to the horcrux would unravel and disperse in time without the soul to anchor them, and Hufflepuff's enchantments would be unharmed.

"I will consider your proposal," the Head Manager said dismissively. "Return tomorrow."

Hermione bowed deeply and left the Execution Room – normally used for the reading of wills – through the door she had used to enter. It wasn't an outright 'no.' That the Head Manager was seriously considering her proposal was almost unexpected, though it was, of course, what she had hoped for. She had no plan if they insisted that only a Lestrange could fetch the cup out for her, or that she go to the Ministry after a warrant, which she was loathe to attempt for many reasons. The goblins had nothing to lose, of course, and much to gain in that she would be rooting out a 'fugitive' (and Enemy of Clan Gringotts) which had taken refuge in their territory, but they were notoriously reluctant to allow any witch or wizard to use wand-magic within the Bank and other goblin lands.

…

When Hermione returned, she was led not to one of the formal meeting rooms, but to the area of the bank where human cursebreakers worked. The Head Manager and her advisor were waiting, along with a wizard introduced as the Head Cursebreaker. The three Gringotts officials observed from behind a two-way mirror as she summoned not hatred or rage, but righteous determination that Voldemort _must_ die, and spoke the six syllables of the Killing Curse. The Cup of Helga Hufflepuff glowed briefly green, and when it faded, the Head Cursebreaker verified that the ancient enchantments on the vessel were undamaged before Hermione was courteously escorted from the building again.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **20 December, 1991**_

 _"That Just Might Work"_

 ** _What if you arrange to capture Voldemort – bind him to an object like a djinn in a lamp?_**

 _That… that just might work. It would certainly solve the dilemma I've been working on – now that the other anchors are gone, if I break the connection between you or the Scar and the Wraith, the Wraith is likely to be drawn to the other, as a horcrux was originally intended to function, and I don't want that to happen to either you or Harry. But if I make him into the equivalent of a horcrux himself…_

 ** _You're welcome. Let me know when you come up with the necessary spells._**

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{


	2. Chapter 2

**Tom and Hermione's Excellent Vacation**

AKA: The story of how AU Future Hermione and Tom Riddle kidnap… I mean _adopt_ Canon Harry.

 **Part II**

* * *

 _ **22 December, 1991**_

 _Crash Landing_

Hermione Granger was sleeping peacefully before dawn broke on the morning of the midwinter solstice. Having decided that she would stay and complete the tasks she had set for herself weeks before, she had no plans for the day, and no reason to haul herself into wakefulness at such an unconscionable hour.

Suddenly she found herself not alone in her twin-sized, rented bed. A large, heavy _something,_ which seemed to be made up primarily of knees and elbows, dropped onto her out of nowhere, prompting a shriek which might, possibly, have suggested to the neighbors that she was being murdered. (None of them made any move to intervene, save to pound on the wall and tell her to shut the bloody hell up.) She shoved the writhing tangle of sharp limbs away from herself, kicking and punching at it effectively enough to drive it to the floor, where it moaned dramatically.

And familiarly.

"Tom?" she asked somewhat shrilly, seizing her wand from the bedside table and casting witchlights into the air. "What are you doing here?"

"Is that any way to greet your husband after five months' absence?" he responded tetchily. "Obviously I've come to fetch you home." He groaned again, hauling himself to his feet. "But I think I need a nap first. Budge over."

She did so, allowing him to fold his long limbs into the bed beside her. "You just scared me half to death, Tom!" she chided, even as she snuggled into the space between his arm and his chest.

"Hmm… that's nice," he mumbled, clearly already half-asleep.

"When you wake up, we're going to have a serious talk about appropriate and inappropriate ways to wake your wife, Tom Riddle!" she threatened, but she knew they probably wouldn't. After all, following her across space and time was one of the more drastically possessive things he had done, but it was probably also the best indication she had ever had that he did truly care about her… enough to try to track her down in an alternate universe, at the very least. It was almost sweet, in a very _Tom_ way.

…

"What do you mean you're not coming home?" Tom asked irritably, finally looking up from chalking runes onto the floor of Hermione's rented room.

"Exactly what I said, genius." She sat, the picture of stubbornness, cross-legged on the bed, watching him work with her wand drawn warily. "I still have things to do here."

"You have things – Eva! This is not our universe! It's not up to you to do whatever the bloody hell you think you have to do before you can go!"

Hermione scowled at the use of the nickname – out of bed, it invariably meant that Tom thought she was doing something incredibly dense. "Maybe it wasn't at first, but I needed _something_ to keep myself occupied the last seven weeks! Besides, I can't leave it all half-done."

"What? What is so powers-bedamned important that you'd rather stay _here_ in this miserable _hovel_ than come back with me?!"

"Killing Voldemort, giving your counterpart a proper second chance, getting Sirius back on his feet, and finding a way to stop Dumbledore meddling in Mary's and Severus' counterparts' lives," she listed promptly, ticking items off on her fingers. Tom stilled at the mention of Dumbledore, so she pressed on. "I've already got most of the horcruxes, and Sirius' place in Azkaban has been taken by the Rat. I just need to trap Voldemort, kill the scar connection, and find some way to break the connection between the diary and Voldemort's life-spark without killing it. Once Voldemort's gone for good, there's no reason for Dumbledore to keep Severus locked up at Hogwarts, or continue to meddle in Harry's life."

"Okay, _wait_. First off, I _know_ you're not as utterly naïve as that last bit just made you sound. You can't honestly think that Dumbledore is only being a manipulative arse to your friends because of _Voldemort_. Need I remind you that he was a domineering bully long before I ever came up with that unfortunate pseudonym? And if you think he'd be willing to give up power over someone as _useful_ as Snape or… did you say Harry?" Hermione nodded, hiding a smirk. Sometimes manipulating Tom was too easy. "Then you've done an excellent job of concealing your complete inability to read people over the past fifteen years!"

"Well, then, what do _you_ propose we do?" she snapped back. "Because I for one do not intend to just hie back home and leave things in a half-baked mess here!"

"Well, _obviously_ …" Tom faltered, and his irritation vanished all at once, replaced by a rather proud look. "No. I see what you're doing, here, dove, but it's not going to work." He chalked another time rune.

"Damn it!"

"It was a good try, I'll admit, but our window of opportunity to return is closing, and I do _not_ intend to stay _here_ for another year, even for the chance to make Dumbledore miserable at leisure and then finally finish him off!"

"I – We're not _killing Dumbledore_!"

"Why _not_? Can you think of anyone who deserves it more? Honestly, the man's despicable," Tom made a face. "It took you _seven weeks_ to destroy four horcruxes, and if you were just the slightest bit more ruthless, you could have done with it by now. He's had _ten years_ and he's still waiting for some prophesied 'savior' to come finish the job. _Moron_. And that's not even getting into the way he runs that bloody school, compromising the state of education, tearing Magical British society down at the roots, denying us our tradition and our heritage and replacing proper holidays with asinine muggle traditions…" Hermione grinned as Tom hit his stride, dropping his runes entirely to go off on a tirade about his favorite subject – the shortcomings of the man he hated more than any other.

When he reached the point of complaining about the old goat's fashion sense, Hermione decided the time was ripe to intervene. "No, of course, you're right," she said, her voice completely devoid of sarcasm. "We should get going, leave this universe to his mercy. After all, I'm sure with your counterpart still trapped in this book, and poor Harry stuck alternatively with abusive relatives and up in Gryffindor tower, force-fed pro-Light propaganda, someone else will get around to dethroning Dumbledore _eventually_. You're right, it's none of our business."

Tom _glowered_ at her. "Fine," he ground out. Hermione smirked. Conceding sounded like it hurt.

"Fine, what? You should finish that diagram. Like you said, we've only a few hours left, and –"

"Fine, we can stay. One year! And then we're going back! No arguments!"

"Yes, dear, I think a year should be plenty of time."

"I've taught you too well," Tom grumbled.

"I don't think you can take _all_ the credit," Hermione teased.

"Do you not know me at all, witch?!"

"Mmm, so sorry, who are you again?"

"Eva, my dear?" Tom said, rising smoothly from the floor and sauntering over to her.

"Yes, Tom?"

"Shut up," he advised, capturing her lips in a searing kiss.

She couldn't resist trying for the last word when they came up for air: "You know, Tom, you should take vacations more often."

His only response was an inarticulate growl and another attack on her mouth. She sighed happily. Most marriages, she gathered, were about compromise, but she had to say, she thought _winning_ was better.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **22 December, 1991**_

 _"What do you think would happen if…"_

 ** _What do you mean my counterpart has arrived?_**

 _My husband, from my universe, decided to come fetch me home. Apparently I was taking too long to return for his liking. We're both going to stay through next Yule, now._

 ** _Fascinating. Pass me over to him!_**

…

"Hey, Tom, fancy talking to yourself a bit?"

Tom raised an eyebrow and held his hand out for the book.

…

 **Hello, Diary.**

 ** _You can call me Tom._**

 **No, much to my chagrin,** **I** **am Tom. I tried changing it, but it didn't work out.**

 ** _Well, Voldemort is a stupid name, anyway. It's probably just as well._**

 **What did you want to talk about?**

 ** _Hermione says that you stripped the Idiot's mind before you killed him. I want to know everything._**

 **You want me to** **transcribe** **fifty years of accumulated Dark Arts knowledge? No.**

 ** _Then let me possess you and learn it that way. You are_** ** _me_** ** _anyway, aren't you?_**

 **Not quite. I'm a person you** **could** **but likely** **won't** **grow up to be.**

 ** _Why wouldn't I?_**

 **Because the experiences I've had are so far outside the realm of ordinary that the chances of their replication for you are slim to none. Was I really this dense as a teenager?**

 ** _Presumably. And I'm 21, I'll have you know!_**

 **Same bloody thing. Point is, you are very much a younger version of** **me** **but I am not necessarily an older version of** **you** **simply due to the linearity of the human experience. My past is set; your future is not.**

 ** _Are you going to let me possess you, or not?_**

 **I suppose I could…**

…

"Hermione, what do you think would happen if I allowed a younger version of myself to possess me?"

Hermione snorted. "You would get in a fight for control over your body; you would win; the horcrux would be essentially resorbed, but you're not the person who made it, so it might be more like… assimilated? I imagine you'd end up with both sets of memories, but since there's only seven weeks' difference… I'd go for it."

"That's fairly consistent with my own analysis. I'll let you know how it goes." There was a mad light of experimentation in Tom's eyes.

Hermione gave him an exasperated look, still too irritated by his earlier presumption that she would drop everything to return to the future with him to stop him doing something potentially stupid. (If a good shag was all it took to make her forget she was mad at him, she was fairly certain he would have taken over Magical Britain by 2005.) "You do that."

Tom grinned, then closed his eyes and laid his hand on the book. Three seconds later, he collapsed into a twitching heap on the floor.

His wife rolled her eyes, levitated him onto the bed, then carried on translating a tome of binding rituals she'd gotten for a song at the Nameless Bookshop by Borgin and Burke's. "Idiot."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **23 December, 1991**_

 _Unanticipated Consequences_

Hermione was in the middle of lunch and the day's Prophet when she was distracted by a moan from the bed. "Morning, love," she said cheerfully, tossing a headache potion in an unbreakable vial to her husband.

He flinched at the sound of her voice, and again when the glass landed on him. "Shhhh…"

"Oh, don't be a hypocrite, Tom. If you cruciate people for fun, you're not allowed to bitch about being in pain yourself."

"Can so," he mumbled, fumbling the cork loose. "Ain' me's go' a problem wiv' 'ypocracy," he downed the potion with a single gulp and a shudder.

Hermione smiled and moved to stretch out alongside him. For all he was ashamed of his native accent and generally managed to disguise it perfectly, she thought it was adorable. It was the only honest signal she had found that he was worn down to the point of vulnerability and not just trying to manipulate her.

He buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply before pulling himself together. "Aren't you supposed to warn me when I'm about to do something stupid?" he accused.

"Aren't you supposed to trust that I'll always come back?" It had been part of their marriage vows, never to abandon each other. He knew she hated his possessiveness. There was really no call for him to have come to hunt her down.

"You worry about your wife, and this is the thanks you get," Tom scoffed at the ceiling.

"I don't need rescuing, Tom." Hermione kissed his forehead. "But I appreciate the thought."

…

Much later that evening, Tom hauled himself out of bed and made his way rather unstably to the loo before joining Hermione for a late dinner.

"When were you planning on mentioning… this?" he asked, making a vague motion toward his face.

"What, the fact that you look like you're forty now?" Prior to the horcrux experiment, he had appeared to be a rather distinguished and well-preserved sixty-ish, thanks to a spell intended to tie his physical age to the subjective age of his mind and the effect of integrating all of the late Lord Voldemort's memories and experience into his own. It appeared that integrating a twenty-year-old horcrux had an equal, but opposite effect. "I'm certainly not complaining. Are you?"

He grinned. "I always did want eternal youth."

"And now you look like my husband and not my father. _Always a plus_ ," she teased. "Any other unexpected side-effects?"

"Besides the fact that I now feel all weirdly lop-sided and look like my own son? I inherited the horcrux bond along with the extra two months' worth of memories."

Hermione found the first part of that statement more disturbing than the last. After all, they knew perfectly well how to deal with horcrux bonds – now that they were planning to stay another year, Tom could simply repudiate Voldemort at Samhain, and summon the Destructive Power to destroy it, as he had done for the horcruxes in their own world. "Lop-sided?"

Tom made a face. "The Diary and I were both _the same half_ of a soul, from different universes. The only thing _that_ had in common with resorbing a proper horcrux was that it hurt in ways I didn't know were possible. Now we're one, but it's like having two left _everything_."

"Interesting. I'm sure Damian will want to hear all about it when we get back. Make sure to document the results!"

The wizard gave her a tired smile. "This is, in fact, why I married you. No concern for the test subject, just make sure to take proper notes!" he mocked.

"Oh, shut up," Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. "I get spirited away to an entirely different universe, and I still can't get away from your teasing."

"You know you love it."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **25 December, 1991**_

 _Moving House_

There was a crash and a thud somewhere in the building that made the whole room shake.

"I was serious about not staying here, you know."

Hermione, clearing the remnants of their Christmas dinner from the rickety table, rolled her eyes. "Well, I have to admit, I chose the establishment for its discretion, not its location or quality. Where do you want to go?"

Tom shrugged nonchalantly. "Riddle House should be empty. I mean, there's a caretaker, but we could confound him."

Hermione sighed. At least his first suggestion hadn't been to kill or _imperius_ the muggle. "Riddle House, the one where you murdered your parents and grandparents? In Little Hangleton?"

"You know, you have a bad habit of conflating me with Voldemort when it suits you," Tom noted, which response was not exactly one of denial.

"Well the _point_ is that you look an awful lot like Riddle Senior. Aren't you worried someone might have seen you? Recognized you?"

Tom snorted. "Hermione. You are still the worst criminal mastermind I've ever met. It was almost fifty years ago. No one will remember. Besides, I'm obviously far too young to have done it. We can use the fact that I look like That Bastard. I'll say I was tracing my name and came across the old family home or something and I'm claiming the inheritance."

Hermione hesitated, but another thud and the slamming of at least three doors made up her mind. Tom was very, very good at charming people into giving him what he wanted. He probably wouldn't even need the _confundus_ to convince the caretaker that they ought to be allowed to stay in his father's house. "Alright, just let me finish the dishes and we can go."

She was rewarded with a dazzling grin as Tom packed their meagre belongings with a wave of his wand. "Whenever you're ready, dove."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **31 December, 1991**_

 _The Birthday Present_

"Hermione," Tom drawled, lounging in an armchair by the fire, now more-or-less recovered from his merger with the Diary.

"Yes?"

"I've decided what I want for my birthday."

Hermione stuck her head into the study Tom had claimed as his own. Normally they didn't celebrate birthdays, what with the fact that Tom had been re-born twice and she had done enough time travelling that her own subjective 'birthday' was significantly different from the date on which she was actually born. "What's that, then?"

"The Philosopher's Stone. It _is_ at Hogwarts this year, yes? I want it," he said with a grin.

"Well, it's a bit short-notice," she replied. "Couldn't give a girl more than a few hours to lay hands on the rarest alchemical catalyst in existence?"

The wizard waved away her complaint. "We don't have to get it _today_ , but since we _are_ stuck here, now, I figure I ought to make it worth my while. I just want you to agree to help me steal it, when the time comes."

"What, you were serious?"

"Hermione," Tom said, eyes dancing, "am I ever _not_ serious?"

The witch bit her lip as she considered. "Alright. _If_ the Philosopher's Stone is at Hogwarts, I'll do my best to help you lay hands on it before we go home."

"If? What do you mean, _if_?"

"Aren't you supposed to be the Slytherin here? Do you really think the Flamels would have let Dumbledore have the real stone for his little trap? Or that Dumbledore would be so careless as to actually put it at the end of his little gauntlet? The one I got through with a few friends _as a first-year_?"

Her objection was met with a derisive snort. "You would, too, if you had ever _met_ Nicholas Flamel. Think Dumbledore, but about five times older and more gullible. The fourteen-hundreds were a simpler time, and besides, he was so Ravenclaw it _hurt_. Perenelle, now, she was brilliant. She _might_ have warned against it, but she was also born in a time when witches knew their place." He leered at Hermione, and she sent a stinging hex and a scowl at him. "She wouldn't have contradicted old Nick," he continued, batting the hex aside with practiced nonchalance. "So yeah, I'd say there's actually a pretty good chance it's in the school, even if it's up in the Head's Office or something."

"When did _you_ meet Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel?" Hermione asked, parking her hands on her hips. "And why have you never mentioned them before?"

Tom smirked. " _He_ met them in 1948 – the beginning of his world tour. And it never came up."

"Tell me about them," Hermione demanded with a delighted grin. She did love the fact that after more than a decade of working together and becoming one another's closest confidants, there were still things she didn't know about his (or, in most cases, Voldemort's) life.

Plus he was a very good story-teller.

"Hmm… Okay. This was quite soon after the acquisition of Slytherin's Locket and Hufflepuff's Cup, the creation of the third and fourth horcruxes, and the up-and-coming Dark Lord's subsequent decision to disappear for a while – I believe the reasoning was that he should pursue some method of retaining his youth while he still had it, once immortality was more or less attained. He knew that Flamel was the sole creator and possessor of the Stone, of course, and so he set off to find him in the summer of 1948…"

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _7 January, 1992_**

 _Stircrazy_

"I'm bored," Tom whined, staring out the window at the snow falling on the caretaker's cottage.

Hermione looked up from the ancient Dickenson she had unearthed from one of the shelves in the (to her mind) poorly appointed library. Tom's father and grandparents clearly had not been the intellectual sort. "What's that?"

" _Bored_ , Hermione. Do something interesting."

She raised an eyebrow at his petulant command. There were days when Tom was excellent company, and days when he couldn't be arsed to bother pretending congeniality. Then there were days when he went out of his way to be an irritating shite. This was obviously one of the latter. "I'm always interesting," she replied, in her blandest tone.

"What are you reading?"

"Poetry."

"Dull."

"Blame your grandparents – I'm not the one who filled the library with rubbish."

Tom glared. He still wasn't at all enthusiastic about claiming a relationship to… any of his relations aside from Mary, actually, unless it was in pursuit of his own ends, such as acquiring free run of the house. The caretaker had been only too easy to convince that Tom was 'Thomas Martin Riddle,' son of Tom Marvolo, son of the muggle Tom Riddle who had died so mysteriously in 1943. After nearly two weeks, however, the fun of setting up said house, complete with all-new warding schemes and charm-driven renovations, had apparently worn off.

"Do something interesting, or I'll tell you exactly what I did to Bellatrix to get her to explain what she did to send you here," he threatened, in the same petulant tone that always made Hermione look twice to make sure he hadn't somehow been replaced with a twelve-year-old Draco Malfoy.

She sighed. He had already said he tortured it out of her, and that Hermione shouldn't look so appalled because Bellatrix had obviously been enjoying herself, but she _really_ didn't want to know the details. Something interesting it would have to be, then. "Have you finished the dueling wards on the ballroom?"

He nodded, his satisfaction with getting his way evident in his verbal reiteration: "Ages ago."

Of course he had. He loved dueling. It was something about its ridiculous formal structure and rules juxtaposed against the brutality of fighting for all one was worth, Hermione thought. She, on the other hand, mostly kept at it because as an influential and some would say revolutionary politician, she had enemies. She stuck a scrap of parchment in the book and set it aside. "Well, then, third-blood. Nothing you can't heal."

Tom grinned and practically skipped out of the room. She was bound to lose – he had always been the better duelist of the two of them – but she couldn't afford to get out of practice, and it had been ages since she'd had a good practice bout.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _12 January, 1992_**

 _The One with Snape and the Excessive Exposition_

"You know, Hogwarts starts up again tomorrow," Tom said, in the way of making idle conversation while he cooked breakfast. Much to Hermione's irritation, she had managed to master preparing soups, which were somewhat similar to Potions, but aside from that, her kitchen skills had never surpassed sandwiches, _hot_ sandwiches, and eggs on toast, which Mary insisted were also practically sandwiches.

"I suppose it does," she answered idly, setting the Sunday Prophet aside.

"You know your plan to ambush Quirrell and capture the Idiot?"

Of course she did. It had taken her most of the two weeks Tom had been fussing about renovating the house to patch together the necessary binding spells and enchant a suitable receptacle for Voldemort's wraith. "The one you dismissed last week as an infantile display of inanity, just to pick a fight?"

He shrugged. "I was bored."

"What about it?"

"We should do that."

"Today?"

Hermione's disbelief must have been evident in her tone, because Tom was almost sarcastic in his response: "Did you have other plans for the day?"

"Did you want to delay just to disrupt the beginning of term for Dumbledore?" she asked suspiciously. The plan was almost certain to result in Quirrell's premature death, but Hermione had no qualms about this: his fate had been sealed by allowing the Wraith to possess him, and would be inevitable, even if they did nothing. He would certainly be unable to continue teaching DADA throughout the second term.

Tom gave her his best angelic 'who, me?' smile. "You should eat your sausage before it gets cold."

"Yeah, alright," she said with a snort. Petty bastard. "We can go recruit Snape after lunch. You know how he is about mornings."

" _Ms_. Granger… Mr. _Riddle_ … I presume you have some urgent and _unassailable_ excuse for troubling me at such an… _unseemly_ hour…" Tom grinned, mimicking the Potions Master on the last occasion they had called on him before ten, then snapping back to his usual crisp patterns of speech. "Dark Powers, no one does offended condescension like that old bastard."

"In his defense, it _was_ half five. He'd probably only just gone to bed."

Tom shrugged unrepentantly and helped himself to another pancake.

…

It was no more difficult for two to enter the school than one, but as soon as Tom passed the ward line, he nearly doubled over in pain.

"Tom?! What's wrong?" Hermione nearly shouted, her voice echoing through the tunnel.

He groaned, and straightened stiffly. "It appears that once a Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts, one is always a Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"You're being obscure, Tom," Hermione chided, regaining her composure. Surely, if he was capable of snark, nothing was too terribly wrong.

"I took an oath to Hogwarts to protect its students. Given my awareness that there is a mad basilisk in the bowels of the school, and the fact that I've done nothing to render it safe since I became the Deputy Head, the geas has just come into play, binding my magic until such time as I've rendered the castle safe from that particular threat," he said scornfully, kicking at the stone of the tunnel. Hermione gave him a sympathetic smile. She knew how he hated being forced into anything.

"So you're headed to the Chamber, then?"

Tom scowled. "Indeed. Be a love and conjure a sword for me?"

"A sword? Really?"

"Magic. Bound," he ground out. "Much as I would enjoy having access to another thousand years' worth of basilisk-gathered magic to play with, there's no saying when the Castle will consider the terms of the geas met. I may have to hatch a replacement first, since I _also_ know what would happen to this school _without_ a basilisk in the Chamber. Bloody stupid heap of rock!"

Hermione conjured the requisite sword, and watched in silence as he stormed off to execute the giant snake. She did, briefly, consider offering to accompany him, but decided that, had he wanted her there, he would have demanded her presence. She certainly didn't need to watch him take his anger at the Castle out on the snake.

She continued toward Snape's office, shaking her head at the whole situation.

…

Hermione knocked briskly on the tiny patch of the door to Snape's private quarters which was not cursed, hexed, or warded against intruders, laughing a bit at his blatant antipathy toward visitors.

He wrenched the portal open with a scowl and rudely inquired, "Who are you, and why are you here?"

"Hello, Severus," she said with a grin. "It's Hermione Granger. You won't believe me, yet, but we're going to be great friends one day."

He interrupted whatever smart remark he was preparing as she caught his eye and dropped her Occlumency shields, allowing him full access to her memories. It was a terribly intimate experience, but it wasn't as though she hadn't done the same countless times before in the process of learning to occlude, or in sharing sensitive information over the years.

After ten minutes' hasty searching through the past years to verify her identity, and another five closely scrutinizing the past three months, Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed dramatically. "I suppose you had best come in, Ms…"

"I'm using the name Riddle," she said with a grin.

"Merlin and Morgan," he grumbled, leading the way through the shadowy corridors, "I bloody hate time travel."

"I know, sir," she said, as comfortingly as she could.

…

"So tell me, how is it that I came to be on first-name terms with an insufferable Gryffindor know-it-all?" Snape asked, settling into an armchair with a tumbler of firewhisky and pouring one for her as well.

Hermione grinned. "Well, you saw that I come from an alternate universe. There's a chance you're just kinder in my world," she teased, and received the classic raised eyebrow for her troubles. "So far, the only differences I've been able to discover between my world and yours," she explained, "prior to my arrival, of course, stem from the fact that your Harry Potter was a girl in my world – Mary Potter, my first friend and adopted sister. We met at the muggleborn shopping trip and became friends before school; Mary was a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor, so I had mostly Slytherin friends, especially for the first couple of years; and I myself was an insufferable _Ravenclaw_ know-it-all."

"Indeed?"

She nodded. "I think it was a combination of factors, though, really: the Slytherins pointing out that my classroom etiquette was truly deplorable, and interpreting your usual cutting remarks for me until I realized you didn't hate me personally; a polyjuice potion I brewed in my second year, which you later admitted showed I had the potential to explore and apply my knowledge outside of simply regurgitating facts; a highly illegal and morally questionable scheme involving myself, nine other Ravenclaws, Slytherins, and Gryffindors, Veritaserum and the Heir of Slytherin – you felt the need to drum some idea of ethics into my brain; and of course, in third year, I got a time turner." Snape, whose eyes had widened slightly as she ticked off points on her fingers, groaned at the mention of the enchanted hourglasses, and Hermione nodded in sympathy.

"I believe you said something along the lines that Minerva and Filius ought to have been hanged for allowing such a troublemaker as myself access to such a device," she continued with a nostalgic grin. "But when my friends suggested using it to its fullest extent, you did give me a few pointers, and an all-access pass to the restricted section, in exchange for research-reports on soul magic and self-sacrifice rituals – looking into the events of Samhain of '81, you know."

"Why on Earth would I do that?"

"Ah… I'll get there in a moment. Where were we… oh, yes. I started looking into all manner of other useful things, including Occlumency, and you caught me with Parkinson's _Ars Memoria_ and gave me a few pointers on _that_ , and things took off from there. I was your informal apprentice throughout my remaining years at Hogwarts, mostly focusing on magical theory, Dark Arts, and mind magic. It helped, of course, that Mary was practically a sister to me, and that you informally declared yourself her godfather."

Snape gave her a look of genuine disbelief. "You _must_ be joking. _I_ , godfather to a _Potter_?"

"Nope." Hermione shook her head. "And did you not consider Lily Evans the sister you never had? If so, that's another major difference to add to my list."

The Potions Master's eyes softened a bit at that. "I – no. That's true. But your Mary must have been quite different from our Potter. He is so like his father, the arrogant swine, strutting about like he owns the bloody place –"

Snape was interrupted by Hermione's burst of laughter. He stared at her indignantly, silently calling attention to her utter impertinence, but after nearly two decades' close association, his glares meant far less to her than they once had. "Are you seriously telling me that Lily Evans wasn't hideously arrogant at times? Or that James Potter wasn't the serious, mature one out of the Marauders, when push came to shove?"

"He was a pestilential _bully_ who –"

"Tortured you on a daily basis, publicly humiliated you more times than you could count, cornered you whenever he could to duel you two or three on one with Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew as backup?" In Hermione's experience, the best way to deal with whiney Slytherins (Snape, Tom, Mary, Draco, and even Lilian, back in the day) was to simply talk over them. They generally found it irritating enough that they couldn't ignore her, and were too-well-trained in proper conversational etiquette to retaliate in kind. " _Poor Sevvie-poo._ Don't try to play the victim with me, Snape – I've known you for twenty years, and there's no way in the nine hells the youngest Potions Master in three centuries and youngest Head of Slytherin in five didn't make their lives just as miserable."

Snape snorted – his go-to response when he knew she was right but didn't want to admit it. "That doesn't change the fact that Potter is a spoilt brat who thinks his fame and money and family name will take him everywhere in life."

"Have you given up your principle of not legilimising students then?"

"Of course not!"

"Have you suddenly started letting students chatter on in Potions?"

The glare he gave her was as good a 'no' as if he had spoken it.

"Well, then, I don't see how you've managed to form an opinion of him at all."

"You only have to look at the boy! Watch him interact with his peers! Dumbledore informed the faculty that he has been happy and well-taken care of – he has doubtless grown up to have his head inflated with tales of his own prowess –"

" _Dumbledore?_ " Hermione hissed in her best impression of the man before her. " _Dumbledore_ informed you? You would trust the word of a man you despise more than the Dark Lord himself – a man who has kept you here, trapped and languishing for the past ten years and whom you _know_ to be both an ineffective leader and ruthless maker of martyrs – rather than form your own opinion based on the evidence of your eyes and ears? Have you not diligently taught your students to think for themselves since you took over as their head of house? In all the twenty years I have known you, Severus Snape, I _never_ thought you were a hypocrite!

"This is not my first visit to Hogwarts, Severus. Let me tell you what I've observed, shall I? Harry Potter has no idea how to deal with suddenly being a wizard, and a famous one at that! What you have taken as arrogance and even insolence is nothing but ignorance – complete and utter ignorance of wizarding culture. What you have taken as aloof confidence is shyness! Even within Gryffindor, he associates only with the Weasley boy and my counterpart, neither of whom are well-suited to help him learn about our world, because he is obviously _painfully uncomfortable_ being the center of attention!

"He has grown up with muggles – _Petunia Evans_ and her husband, at Dumbledore's arrangement! Spoilt is the _last_ thing he was when he came to school. The boy was raised to work like a bloody House Elf, Severus! And I _know_ you know the signs of abuse when you see them! Ill-fitting muggle clothes under his robes, flinching away from casual contact, refusing to meet the eyes of upperclassmen, and I'm sure his professors as well!"

"Are you suggesting that I am a _liar_ , Ms. Granger? Or that I have simply failed in my duties as a professor of Hogwarts in failing to report such signs?"

"It's _Riddle_. And I'm only suggesting that you might well be letting your prejudice against James and Gryffindor House blind you to the reality of Harry's situation. I bet you _anything_ he didn't know about the magical world at all before July, let alone that he was famous for not-bloody-dying. Dumbledore always had a thing for that whole prince-raised-by-goatherds motif. I can't _imagine_ how much more of a manipulative old coot he's been since Harry's a boy and can be his miraculous survivor and prophesied savior all in one!" Hermione found that she was breathing rather hard, at the end of her tirade.

Snape froze, a retort clearly on the tip of his tongue. "You know about the prophecy?"

"Yes, of course I do," she said dismissively. "Bloody stupid bit of twaddle."

He seemed to consider this for a long moment, and then: "Why are you here, at Hogwarts?" he asked suddenly.

She took a deep breath before answering. "Yes, you're right. We're getting off-track. Specifically, I'm here today to ask for your help in capturing and binding the shade of the Dark Lord which is possessing Quirinus Quirrell. At the broader level, I intend to kill the Dark Lord properly before returning to my own universe and timeline. My husband, I believe, has designs on driving Dumbledore from power over the course of the next year. You ought to be free to leave Hogwarts by next Yule," she added with a small smile, knowing that it had been Severus Snape's dearest wish for at least a decade, now, to be free of both of his sworn masters.

"What?" Snape used the flat tone Hermione privately referred to as the Surprised Slytherin Voice of Disbelief.

Hermione decided to address the killing-of-Voldemort aspect first. "Horcruxes."

"Horcruxes?"

"That's why the Dark Lord didn't fully die. He has – well, had – five. And one soul-magic accident that may function similarly. I have destroyed four. The last will be destroyed on Samhain. I plan to deal with the accidental potential anchor over the summer."

" _Five_ horcruxes?"

"Yes. Do you need a moment?" she peered closely at the man before her. He looked a bit pale, even for his usual, sallow self.

"No – I just – Morrigan! What the hell was he thinking?!"

"Hmmm… For the first one, I believe it was something like 'just in case one of the muggle bombs falls on my orphanage, I'd rather not die once and for all.' After that he said he was just experimenting, mostly, hoping to overcome some of the shortcomings of the ritual."

"You – _he said_?"

Hermione poured another drink for her former master before she continued. He looked like he needed it. "In my timeline, in the autumn of 1992, the first horcrux, a diary, was activated, not by the return of the 'original' soul fragment and life-spark, but by a girl writing in it, pouring her heart and soul out to the horcrux, building a strong-enough connection with it that he was able to possess her. He took her into the Chamber of Secrets intending to use her life-spark and magic to substantiate a new body for himself. This process was foiled by two of the girl's brothers and Mary Potter, but he managed to salvage the attempt, involving the lot of them in a class-seven experimental Black Arts ritual and gaining a new body before obliviating them and making his escape.

"He returned four years later to take the DADA post and destroy the Dark Lord once and for all. In the course of this, he stripped his alter-ego's mind, leading to a vast and sudden increase in his knowledge of Dark Arts and events after 1945, including the Dark Lord's thought processes regarding the making of horcruxes."

"How do _you_ know all of this?" Snape asked suspiciously.

Hermione gave him her sweetest smile. "I've been allied with the bloody bastard since 1998, bonded since 2001, and married since 2008. By this point, I think I might know him better than he knows himself."

"You… _Hermione Granger…_ _married_ … _the Dark Lord_."

"Kind of? More like I married his slightly less evil, more mature twin who was caught in stasis for forty years," she answered casually. She had been defending her relationship to Snape since before it was even a thing. He had come around eventually. "Besides, you have no room to throw stones," she added with a smirk

"I never _married the Dark Lord!"_

"No, marriage would have been a _much_ more equal relationship than _you_ ever had with him." Snape attempted to speak, but Hermione steamrolled directly over his comment. " _The point is_ , when Lily's Justice ward destroyed the Dark Lord's body, he was reduced to a wraith – a mere fraction of his original soul and life-spark, more demonic than it is like anything else from this plane – which has since possessed Quirrell and is slowly killing him."

She stopped to take a breath, and Snape finally got his word in edgewise. "You said your husband was going to take down Dumbledore – he's here? The Dark Lord?"

Hermione shrugged, somewhat irritated that they were still stuck on that, but impressed as ever by Snape's ability to catch the smallest of details in passing. " _Tom_ , yes, is around, somewhere. Probably still in the Chamber, though he may be trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone by now."

Snape lurched to his feet. "I have to – someone should be informed –" Hermione was quietly impressed with herself – she had never before managed to render him _incoherent_. Apparently all that was required was a time-traveler from an alternate universe, who happened to be the wife of a former horcrux of Snape's former Lord from that same universe (also a time-traveler, loose somewhere in the Castle), the current wraith of said former Dark Lord (also loose in the Castle, possessing the DADA instructor), and a threat to a priceless alchemical artifact which Snape was meant to be guarding.

"Oh, relax. Sit down, Severus! He just wants it for bragging rights. Besides, like I said, he's probably still dealing with the basilisk –"

Snape, who had allowed himself to be settled back into his armchair, lurched to his feet again. " _Basilisk?_ There's a _basilisk_ in the _school_?"

Hermione nodded, pinching the bridge of her nose in a decidedly Snape-like gesture. "Before you get all up in arms, as I've said, Tom is dealing with it. He has to – his vows as Deputy Headmaster triggered a geas when he entered the wards, so he's gone to put it down. Listen, just – would you _sit_?"

"Deputy… Headmaster?" Snape sat, and after a few seconds of what looked like furious concentration on his part, calm flooded over his features.

Hermione smiled. "Just keep telling yourself we're on your side. If you like, I can remove your Dark Mark as a gesture of good will," she offered.

"You can _what_?" Snape almost whispered.

"The bothersome little tattoo on your left forearm? I can neutralize it. It hurts like a bitch, but –"

No more convincing was needed. Snape held out his arm and rolled back his sleeve. Hermione grinned. The Dark Mark was the first real bit of curse-breaking she had ever done, back in her NEWT years, but she still remembered its twists and traps and intricacies. It was a good bit of enchanting, especially considering Tom hadn't had much more experience than she had now when he designed it. She cast a magesight spell on herself and set to work.

…

An hour later, the Potions Master knelt on the floor, running a single pale finger over his unblemished forearm in astonishment, clearly too overwhelmed by his sudden freedom to object to an angry and blood-soaked Tom (who had arrived halfway through the process) taking over his favorite armchair or the couple's habitual bickering.

"Of course you're tired – I never meant for the Mark to come _off_ ," Tom said with a sneer.

"You're just bitchy because you had to put down your little pet," Hermione scoffed. He had been more than impressed back in '98 that she had developed a neutralization process for the Mark that didn't kill its host – something he had intended to be impossible when he designed it.

"No, I'm _bitchy_ , as you say, because I appear to have the option of hatching a new basilisk or re-working the Hogwarts wards before the bloody school will let me leave the grounds!"

Hermione couldn't help but laugh at this. "Poor Tom. After you spent all that time redecorating, too."

"Bitch," he hissed.

"Psychopath," she returned cheerfully. Removing the Mark was tedious, strenuous, and exhausting, but it always brightened her day to best Tom in some small way. He was very good at nearly everything he attempted, so she had the opportunity very rarely.

"I require a chicken's egg, a toad, half a dozen non-magical serpents, and Quirinus _bloody_ Quirrell!" he demanded imperiously.

"What has Quirrell got to do with your basilisk problem?" Hermione asked, momentarily thrown. It made sense that he would need to replace the basilisk – the wards were keyed to the Headmaster, and re-designing them would take years in any case – but no basilisk-hatching spell or ritual she had ever read required a possessed professor.

" _Nothing_." There was a seething rage in his tone. "I just need to kill something, and I'm all out of basilisks, so if you would be so kind…"

"Tom," she chided, allowing her exhaustion to seep into her voice. "We've been over this, you can't just kill people because you want to."

"You've already condemned him, anyway! He's already condemned himself! I swear by the Morrigan, Eva, if you don't let me finish him off, I'm going back to the Dark Lord approach when we get home!"

She just rolled her eyes. "No you won't. You've already invested far too much in becoming Headmaster of Hogwarts."

Tom hissed something incoherent at her in Parseltongue before stalking out of Snape's quarters.

"Where has he gone?" Snape asked, his attention finally drawn away from his arm.

"Oh, who knows?" Hermione nearly shouted in her exasperation, or perhaps so that the man who had just left the room would hear her getting the final word in. "Probably to go kill a bloody unicorn or something. Sometimes I wonder why I ever married the bloodthirsty moron!"

Snape appeared to have nothing to say to this, so after a moment's brooding over the mayhem the errant former Dark Lord was likely causing, she continued. "Come on, I need your help to capture Quirrell."

…

Quirrell was every bit as moronic as Hermione recalled from her very first year at Hogwarts. He had already returned from wherever he had gone over the holiday – if indeed he had left – and was ensconced in a room in the guest quarters of the Castle. It had been many years since the DADA professor's rooms had been attached to that office – not since a sample of Corrupting Concoction had melted through its container in 1962 and combined unfavorably with a display sample of (rather aged) doxy eggs, creating a poisonous gas which seeped from the office into the professor's private chambers. Hermione, currently recognized either as a visitor or a student, depending, she supposed, on whether the wards recognized her as they apparently did Tom, could not enter that wing unless accompanied by a Hogwarts staff member.

Thus it fell to Severus to lead Hermione to Quirrell's chambers, and to lure the man out into the hall with some inane excuse. Possession, apparently, had not improved the mental facilities of either the former Muggle Studies professor _or_ the Dark Lord, because he had stepped out to speak with Severus, and completely failed to notice the tell-tale signs of a magical containment field going into effect around him until it was far too late. In his defense, containment fields _were_ rather darker a spell than one might reasonably expect to encounter inside a school, but still – _constant vigilance!_

Snape's sneer at the be-turbaned man was either a sign that he agreed with Hermione's assessment of Quirrellmort, or else the habitual disdain he held for all of his short-lived DADA 'colleagues.' It was often difficult to distinguish between his personal and professional scorn. The three of them – bound and glowing, semi-conscious, possessed Quirrell; relatively impatient, short and irritable visiting witch; and bemused albeit perpetually moody potions master – made an interesting procession as they meandered through the least-used corridors to the Room of Requirement.

Tom was waiting for them there, apparently not having gone to murder a unicorn after all, though the Room still reflected his dark mood, the accommodations provided being a cross between a torture chamber and a slaughter house. Hermione was not impressed, and no amount of begging and wheedling on Tom's part would convince her to allow him to cut the wretched excuse for a wizard up, 'just a bit,' before her ritual. He eventually retreated to a corner to sulk and throw the dirtiest glares he could manage at his wife, along with the occasional threat of retribution to come, to be delivered upon at such time as he was finally allowed to leave the grounds of Hogwarts.

Snape, hardly less eager to see the Dark Lord trapped in a muggle Coleman lamp –the sort intended for tenting, with the kerosene and the little sock-wicks, which Tom assured Hermione would be the most embarrassing sort of lamp to be trapped within – than Tom was to torture (or at the very least kill) his host, invited himself to stay and watch the proceedings. The ritual was simplicity itself: Snape took over the containment field so that Hermione could focus on drawing and activating a modified Gate of Idramm around the lamp in the center of the room. The containment field was released, and the Wraith immediately attempted to flee, boiling out of his host's failing body, only to be drawn in by the power of the ancient Persian _yantra_ , which snapped closed around the Wraith and the lamp, rather like a bear-trap. The glass and incongruous, green-painted aluminum of the Lamp glowed briefly golden with the lines of the sacred symbol before these faded away, leaving only a possessed bit of muggle camping equipment on the one hand, and a quickly-expiring DADA professor on the other.

Tom pointedly cast several diagnostic charms indicating major organ damage far too severe – and too tainted by malevolent power – to be healed before giving his wife his best kicked-puppy eyes. "I never get to kill _anyone_ anymore," he whined. "You were the one who said I ought to consider this a vacation. And I'm going to be stuck here, in the Castle, for _months._ "

Snape wisely did not question why the… former? Dark Lord required his wife's permission (his muggleborn, insufferable know-it-all wife) to torture and kill the waste of magic that was Quirinus Quirrell. When she finally gave in, literally throwing up her hands and storming out of the room with a final, "Do what you want, Tom – you always do, in the end!" he rather gleefully accepted the invitation to watch the pathetic 'professor's demise. There was, after all, a reason Severus Snape had become a Death Eater in the first place, and it was not because he had found the Dark Mark fashionable at seventeen.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{


	3. Chapter 3

**Tom and Hermione's Excellent Vacation**

AKA: The story of how AU Future Hermione and Tom Riddle kidnap… I mean _adopt_ Canon Harry.

 **Part III**

* * *

 _ **15 January, 1992**_

 _"It is cursed, you know."_

Hermione, more or less recovered from her irritation with Tom and his murderous tendencies, smirked broadly as she noted the advert in the Prophet for _yet another_ Hogwarts DADA professor. It had been decades since they had lost one so early in the year that he had to be replaced halfway through. Dumbledore had to be going spare.

With Tom currently (and for the next month, at least, if Hermione correctly recalled the time it took to hatch a basilisk) stuck at the school, there was no reason for her not to join him. Plus there were the added advantages of having a chance to work directly with Harry and her younger counterpart; to mess with Dumbledore's head; to help Tom steal the Philosopher's Stone as she had promised for his birthday; and to possibly actually teach the students something about defending themselves. She still recalled how awful those first two years of DADA had been. Nearly as bad as History with Binns. She packed her (still-meagre) belongings into a valise that was larger on the inside, and went off to throw her hat into the ring.

…

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed suspiciously as Hermione introduced herself. "An interesting surname, Riddle."

She suppressed a smirk. "I find it suits me."

"Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered, smiling genially, eyes twinkling dangerously over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

Hermione gave him her sweetest smile in return, reinforcing her Occlumency shields against his casual use of legilimency. "No, thank you. My parents were dentists."

"Dentists?"

"Muggle tooth healers," she explained, with some resignation. "Sugar is bad for the teeth, you know."

"Ah, no?" At the implied insult to his preferred hard candy, Dumbledore hastily changed the subject. "So you're _muggleborn_ , then?"

"Will that be a _problem?_ "

"No, no, of course not, my dear. We here at Hogwarts are always delighted to help another muggleborn find their place in our society."

The witch raised an eyebrow at him. Had he always been such a patronizing arse? "Yes, well, I like to think I've done quite well for myself these past twenty years, but if I need any help 'finding my place,' I _will_ be sure to ask your assistance, Headmaster." Snape, she thought, would have been proud of her dry sarcasm.

Said Headmaster looked as though he couldn't decide whether saying 'that's not what I meant' would make him look even more like a blood purist. In the end, he changed the subject again. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to elaborate on your qualifications as a Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor."

"I was told that the only requirements were to be breathing, and prepared to sign a contract releasing Hogwarts from any and all legal responsibility should I be killed, maimed, or permanently incapacitated as a result of my teaching here."

"Well, that is true," Dumbledore admitted slowly, his eyes sparkling even more intensely. "But we do try to bring on Defense Instructors with a minimal degree of experience, at the very least." Yes, she decided, he probably had always been this much of an arse. She had simply got used to his being dead and therefore unable to patronize her for the last thirteen years or so.

"Given that I've managed to deflect your legilimency attack for the last five minutes, I confess myself surprised that you would question my competency," she said, raising a second-hand Slytherin eyebrow at him (one could hardly help but pick up their characteristic expressions when one was surrounded by them all the bloody time).

She received a rueful smile in return. "Can you provide any references?"

"Severus Snape will vouch for me," she said confidently, then added silently, _if only to spite you_.

"Severus? Really? But I thought _he_ wanted…"

"He wants you to let him quit teaching. I've told him that if his treatment of your Gryffindors hasn't been enough to make you let him go over the past ten years, nothing will do it, but he's surprisingly optimistic."

"I… see."

Dumbledore sent a House Elf to fetch his Potions Master, who was, of course, teaching a lesson, and was rather displeased to be interrupted. The interviewer and the interviewee sat in silence as they awaited his arrival.

"What is it, Dumbledore?" he asked as he stalked out of the floo, green flames dancing around the hem of his robes as he crossed the room. That tore it – they had to be enchanted somehow to always appear at their most dramatic! "If you recall, we lesser mortals do have classes to teach during the day."

Hermione caught his eye and allowed him to see the interview thusfar in her recent memories as the Headmaster said, jovially, "Ah, Severus, my boy!"

Hermione stood and curtseyed properly, which earned her a brush of lips across her knuckles. "Ms. Riddle. It has been too long."

"Indeed, Professor Snape. I hope you don't think it forward of me, but I've told the Headmaster here that you might be willing to provide a reference for me as I apply for the Defense posting."

"Of course. But are you sure you want it? It is cursed, you know."

Hermione shrugged. "I find myself at loose ends for a few months. I certainly don't intend to stay longer than the remainder of the term."

"You don't?" Dumbledore interrupted.

"I would be a fool to ignore a pattern of deaths, disappearances, and career-destroying catastrophes forty years in the making," she pointed out.

"Erm… quite. Though I must say, there is no proof that the position is actually cursed, as such…"

"All the same, I'm afraid I will only be available through June."

Dumbledore gave her a rather resigned sigh and made a note on a scrap of parchment. "How do you two know each other, Severus?"

"We met at the International Dark Arts Conference in Brussels several years ago and have remained in touch by post."

"Oh? Where are you from, Miss Riddle?"

"It's _Ms._ I am most recently from America, though I was educated here in Britain under a different name."

"What name was that?" the Headmaster asked, rather startled, probably by the fact that he didn't recognize her.

"I'm afraid I can't say," she said with a teasing grin. "By the by, do you ever find that Unspeakables are rather unreasonable in their obsession with magical oaths?"

"Ah, quite right! Say no more, Miss Riddle."

She nodded politely, though she felt compelled to say, "It's _Ms._ Riddle, not Miss. I am a grown woman, Headmaster, not one of your students."

The old wizard made a noncommittal noise and another note on his parchment.

"And you will vouch for Miss Riddle, Severus?" Hermione ground her teeth at the persistently incorrect address.

"Of course, Headmaster. I have no doubt she will be a vast improvement over the last few incompetents you've hired for the post. I daresay the little monsters might actually learn something."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline with that ringing endorsement (coming from Severus, at least). "And Miss Riddle," (" _Ms._ ") "why, exactly, are you _applying_ for this post?"

"As I've said, I find myself at loose ends for a few months," she repeated, controlling her temper. "I prefer to do something productive with my time, and the advert for the position seemed like a sign."

"Hmm… well, I think that concludes our interview!" the Headmaster said brightly. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Miss Riddle! If you would be so kind as to review and sign this contract," he added, passing a long scroll across the desk, "I'll have you keyed into the wards, and since you already know Severus, I'm sure he would be pleased to give you a tour of the school."

"Dumbledore, surely a house elf –"

"Nonsense, my boy!"

Hermione suppressed a smirk as Snape's left eye twitched. At least she wasn't the only one the Old Goat refused to address properly.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **21 January, 1992**_

 _"What happened to Professor Quirrell?"_

"Please, Professor Riddle," Young Hermione asked, waving her hand rather desperately from a seat in the front row, "won't you tell us what happened to Professor Quirrell?"

Hermione gave the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw first-year class a tiny smile and hopped up on the teacher's desk to sit facing her youngest students.

"All right, then. But before I do, write this down: Your homework for next class is to write one foot for me – _absolutely no more_ – on the most important thing you learned from Professor Quirrell and why it was the most important. Got it?"

There was a flurry of scribbling and several students nodded.

"Okay, then. By this point, I think you'll all have realized, the only more rubbish subject at Hogwarts than DADA is History."

There was a bit of uncomfortable laughter from some of the Ravenclaws, and Ronald Weasley said, "What about Potions?" which earned a few more titters from his fellow Gryffindors.

"Say what you will about Professor Snape's treatment of Gryffindor House, but the success rates of his teaching methods and the fact that he has never had a student die due to an accident in his class speak for themselves," she snapped. "Now, as I was saying, in order to understand what happened to Professor Quirrell, you all first need to understand a bit about the DADA post at Hogwarts, which means having a bit of a history lesson…"

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **29 January, 1992**_

 _A Deep and Abiding Mistrust_

"I don't trust her one bit!" the twelve-year-old Hermione complained to her two companions. "I mean, you don't think it's a bit suspicious that Professor Quirrell just _disappears_ and she turns up out of nowhere a week later?"

"The Headmaster _had_ to hire someone, didn't he?" Harry asked reasonably. He rather liked the new Defense Professor. She was much more interesting than Quirrell, and he never got headaches in her class, probably because there was no overwhelming smell of garlic to contend with.

"You don't think she's in league with Snape, do you?" Ron asked seriously. "I mean, they're always sitting together at dinner, and –"

" _Professor_ Snape," Hermione insisted, shaking her head at the rudeness of the red-headed boy. "And no, that used to be Professor Quirrell's seat."

"But she was awfully quick to defend him in our first lesson, d'you remember?" Harry recalled with a hint of suspicion.

Ron nodded eagerly. "I bet Snape got rid of Quirrell and found a way to get her in to replace him to help him steal whatever that dog's guarding and kill Harry!"

"I don't think Professor Snape's trying to steal whatever it is," Hermione argued. "He's a _teacher_. Headmaster Dumbledore obviously trusts him."

"But you're the one who caught him trying to curse Harry!"

"And Professor Riddle's a teacher, too, Hermione." The girl made an inarticulate sound of frustration, and Harry continued: "I bet you're just sore we did better than you on her first assignment."

"What kind of teacher marks you down for giving _more_ information?" the swot nearly shouted.

"The kind of teacher," Percy Weasley interrupted, prefect badge gleaming ominously, "who's trying to figure out exactly how much damage the last three DADA professors have done to our educations as quickly as possible, and make up for it in the one term she has to work with. Now _if you don't mind_ , Miss Granger, keep your voice _down_. Some of us have OWLs to study for!"

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _14 February, 1992_**

 _The Date of DOOM_

"You know what would be a lovely Valentine's Day gift?"

"What?" Hermione asked suspiciously, looking up from her work re-binding one of the damaged tomes in Salazar's Library. Tom's disdain for muggle holidays in general, and 'the manufactured concept of romantic love' in particular, were well known.

Tom set his own book aside to give her a wicked grin. "If you were to somehow _distract_ Dumbledore so I can search his office for the Philosopher's Stone."

His wife blinked at him. "That is _not_ what I was expecting you to say."

"What _were_ you expecting me to say?"

"Chocolate? Sex? Let you carve little roses into my skin? Stage a re-enactment of the Valentine's Day Massacre? Something holiday-themed, at least."

The wizard affected a look of contemplation. "Well, if you _want_ little roses carved into your skin, I can do that, but you still owe me a Philosopher's Stone for my birthday, _fake_ holiday or not."

"I _really_ don't, thanks all the same." She gave him an overly-dramatic sigh. "How do you propose I go about _distracting_ our eminent Headmaster, then?"

"That's your problem, isn't it?"

"What? _Tom_!"

"I don't know, invite him to lunch at Madam Puddifoot's or something."

There was a long pause, filled with amusement on Tom's side, and utter bewilderment on Hermione's. "Isn't he gay?" she finally asked, the first coherent thought she could pull together.

"That just means he won't be expecting you to put out at the end of the date," Tom said sagely, bending his head over his book in a failed attempt to hide a delighted grin at the shock and horror his words produced.

After half a minute of inarticulate noises ranging from 'gac' to 'wha?' the witch managed to glare at her now-laughing husband with harpy-like fury. "Why would you put that image in my mind? You're _horrible_."

"You already knew _that_. Anyway, I'd do it myself and let _you_ search the tower, but, one, I can't leave the castle, and two, I'm pretty sure he'd be suspicious if a handsome young bloke who looks like his arch-enemy's son strolled up to the castle gates and asked him out on a whim. I mean he's not got the _best_ taste in lovers, but he'd still probably notice _something amiss_ …"

"Okay, okay, I'll do it!" Hermione laughed. "Just… stop _talking_!"

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **4 March, 1992**_

 _Jormungandr_

"Hermione? Hermione, wake up!"

Hermione jerked into consciousness at the sound of the familiar voice, and the sudden weight at the foot of her bed. "Tom? Wa'swrong?" she mumbled, reaching for her wand.

Since she had joined him at the school, he had spent most of his nights in Slytherin's chambers, while she stayed in the rooms granted to the Defense Professor, a situation which happily mirrored that in their own universe, where Tom, as the Deputy Head, lived at the school and she, who enjoyed the bustle of City life, lived at their London flat. She had not been expecting him, thus his sudden appearance in her bedchamber in the middle of the night was potentially cause for alarm.

"Don't cast a –" Tom began, but it was too late: bright light had already flooded from Hermione's wand.

There was a panicked hissing sound and her husband scrabbled at the blankets at the end of the bed, apparently trying to capture a small black serpent. She tucked her knees to her chest, heart racing. She wasn't normally afraid of snakes, but she had apparently just startled this one, and Tom hardly ever brought snakes around that _weren't_ deadly. She would _hate_ to be bitten by accident.

The snake was eventually recovered from the bedding, and after a few minutes of what Hermione suspected was the equivalent of soothing cooing in Parseltongue, it uncoiled in his palm enough to turn bright yellowish eyes on her.

"Jesus, Tom!" she exclaimed, pinching her own eyes closed as soon as she realized what she was seeing. "Is that a basilisk?"

He sniggered, the _bastard_. "Yes. You can open your eyes. They're not deadly, or even capable of petrification, for at least a few years, you know that."

If she had known, she had obviously also _forgotten_. She had avoided the _last_ baby basilisk for the most part, letting Mary fuss over it while she concerned herself with preparing for war. She opened her eyes rather reluctantly as Tom spoke to the small creature. It was now coiled once around his wrist, which he held out to her.

"Hermione, meet Jormungandr," he said, before hissing and spitting what was presumably the other half of the introduction at the snake. She thought she recognized the ascending chirp-click sound that featured prominently in her name. It – he? – reached out toward her tentatively, and she allowed him, rather reluctantly, to curl around her own wrist with a soft hiss.

"What's he saying?" she asked.

Tom gave a genuine snort of laughter. "He likes you better, even though you're not a speaker," he translated, laying a very cold hand on her bare arm. "You're warm."

She shifted over, allowing the chilly man to join her under the covers, and attempting to ignore the way the small snake snapped at him and his amused reply, which included bopping the tiny thing on the snout. At her bemused expression, he explained, "The little scamp wants you all for himself."

"I see," she grinned. "And what was your response?"

This earned her a rather adorable boop on the nose as well, followed by, "You're mine. Obviously," and a smirk. "Now will you two be quiet? I'm _exhausted_ ," he complained, snuggling further down in the bed and closing his eyes.

Hermione looked rather doubtfully at the small snake, still wrapped around her arm. "You'd better not let me squish you in my sleep," she told it. "I'd never hear the end of it."

"He won't. Now spoon me, wife!" her husband demanded imperiously. She couldn't help but laugh at the incongruousness of the situation, but complied. There was something especially charming about overly-tired, affection-demanding Tom, and it was a persona he rarely assumed.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _12 April, 1992_**

 _How Teachers Spend Their Time_

"All hopeless," Hermione muttered, making another red slash across an entire paragraph in a fifth-year's essay. "Absolutely hopeless."

Snape nodded with a vaguely consoling hum, scrawling a 'T – see me' on a lab report.

"Could you _be_ any more dull?" Tom asked, glaring at the two of them over a stack of books from the library he was 'editing' to include mentions of 'Maia Holmes,' a muggleborn Ravenclaw with Hermione's face, and 'Thomas Martin Riddle,' a Durmstrang graduate from the class of 1969. This was part of a vaguely defined plan to drive Dumbledore insane by making him doubt the existence of a connection between the Tom Riddle of the 1940s and the rise of Lord Voldemort.

"Excuse me for wanting to have a legitimate reason to lurk around the school," Hermione snapped.

"But I'm _bored_."

Snape threw a basket of scrolls at him. "Third-years. They're all morons. Just write something scathing and give them all 'P's."

"You – you can't do that!" Hermione objected. "Surely _some_ of them have to be decent!"

Snape smiled deviously. "Ah, but the ones who are will be driven to better themselves in the hopes of proving that they are not, in fact, the dunderheads I have labeled them. The ones who deserve to languish in obscurity will continue do so."

"But what about the ones who could be good, but decide they're hopeless because of you and stop trying?"

The Potions Master shrugged. "Either they'll realize that I treat everyone the same, and it will be character-building, or they'll reach their OWLs and realize that a 'P' average in my class equates to an 'E' in the so-called 'real world.'"

Hermione, who had managed an 'E' average in Snape's class (before the apparently-routine two-letter adjustment), couldn't help but feel a bit flattered.

"What about the ones that deserve a 'T?'" Tom asked, looking askance at the first essay he unrolled. "This McLaggan kid has confused Doxy eggs with Ashwinder eggs… And neither of those are even _used_ in a Shrinking Solution."

Snape muttered for several minutes under his breath about the uselessness of Gryffindors before announcing, "Give anyone whose potion would kill someone a 'T' and those that just wouldn't work but probably wouldn't be fatal a 'D.' Merlin and Morgan, I hate revising season."

"I would trust any Shrinking Solution brewed by the author of this miserable essay only if I desired to confer upon the drinker a truly... horrifying... death," Tom muttered, doing his best to imitate Snape's style and handwriting. "How's that?" he asked, passing it to Hermione.

"Severus' hand is a bit more cramped, but close enough."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _7 May, 1992_**

 _Advice from Her Older Self_

"Miss Granger, please see me after class," Hermione said quietly as she returned her younger counterpart's latest essay. The girl, who had become increasingly worn over the course of the past month or so, looked briefly horrified, and only nominally reassured when she realized she had, in fact, gotten an 'O' on the assignment.

When the rest of the children filed out, the professor fixed her best 'concerned adult' face in place and took a seat adjacent to her twelve-year-old counterpart, who froze as though a dementor was bearing down on her. "Miss Granger," she said, trying not to laugh. "Are you alright?"

"What?" This was clearly not what the girl had expected her to say. "Yes, ma'am. Of course. I'm fine!"

"Are you sure? Because I haven't been able to help but notice you've been a bit… frazzled, lately," the older witch nudged.

Young Hermione was silent for a long half-minute, but she had never been able to keep her mouth shut for long at that age. "It's just – exams are coming up, and I'm worried I won't do as well, and –"

Hermione held up a hand for silence, and after another minute of babbling, the girl trailed off. "Well, I was going to say 'I'll stop you right there,' but as you didn't, _let's go back a minute_. You said you're worried you won't do as well, which is why you've been putting in so many hours of revising?" Young Hermione nodded, clearly biting her lip to keep from speaking again. Hermione smiled at the familiar gesture. "I know you're concerned about your end-of-term performance in comparison to your peers, and possibly in comparison to your marks at your primary school, but I think it may help you to know that you have _nothing_ to worry about."

"How do you _know_?" burst forth, followed by a belated, "Um… Ma'am."

"Well, for _one_ thing, it's not exactly as though an 'O' is directly comparable to a muggle 'A' in the first place, but for another, have you _met_ your classmates?"

"But the Ravenclaws –"

"The exams are _not_ designed with Ravenclaws in mind," Hermione said drily, speaking over her counterpart. "No one has _ever_ been held back at the end of term at Hogwarts. My first year, my best friend wrote four feet on why Professor Binns should be exorcised, instead of the required essay, and she _still_ passed with an 'A.'" The girl goggled, and Hermione chuckled. "Crabbe and Goyle are going to pass their exams. Brown, Weasley, and Malone are going to pass their exams. _You_ are most _definitely_ going to pass _your_ exams."

Young Hermione gaped for a moment, but then, apparently not by her own volition, she burst out, "But it's not _enough_ just to _pass_!"

"Why not? The only grades that really matter in the wizarding world are your OWLs and NEWTs."

"That's just it," the girl said, in a surprisingly cynical, bitter tone. " _In the wizarding world_ … You couldn't possibly understand what it's like! If you're a mudblood, it's not good enough just to _pass_ , you have to be _the best_ , or you're just another example of how we aren't as good as 'real witches!'"

It was Hermione's turn to be stunned. She decidedly did _not_ recall being so _politically_ motivated to succeed in her own first-year exams. "Okay, first off, do _not_ use the word 'mudblood' to refer to yourself," she said, more out of habit than anything. "It only encourages those who want to think of you as an animal to say you're too stupid to realize you're insulting yourself. _Secondly_ , why _wouldn't_ I understand? I learned of magic when I was eleven, the same as you."

"You – you're a muggleborn?"

"Yes. So is Professor Sprout and Madam Pince, and Professor Vector was muggle-raised."

"But they – you – you all seem to fit in so well!" the girl said despairingly, tears welling in her eyes.

"Oh, _Hermione_ ," her older counterpart sighed, thinking even as she did so that she sounded an awful lot like her mother, "I _hate_ to break it to you, but _being muggleborn_ isn't the reason you don't fit in. You don't fit in because you're smarter than the rest of them – and, wait, listen to me, because this is the important part: _you never let them forget it_!"

"I'm not going to pretend I'm stupid just so people will like me!" Young Hermione said viciously, her tears now escaping down her cheeks. "Mum says you should never have to pretend to be something you're not!"

"Oh, come here." Hermione conjured a handkerchief and wiped the young witch's face before passing it to her. "Your mother is a very smart woman. But there's a difference between _pretending to be stupid_ and simply _not belligerently and abrasively drawing attention to the fact that you are the smartest person in the room_. A rather large one, actually. You don't need to answer _every_ question, or make a perfect score on every exam, or add an extra two feet to every essay to prove to your teachers and your classmates that you belong at Hogwarts."

"I thought you h-hated me," the girl sniffled.

"Of course I don't. Now listen, if you really want to fit in, make friends with Padma Patil and Mandy Brocklehurst in Ravenclaw, or Chelsea Lewis and Stacy Bagnold in the year above you. And pay attention to how your classmates act. Just because you're in Gryffindor is no excuse not to learn basic manners."

"I have manners," was the somewhat-offended response.

"You have _muggle_ manners," Hermione corrected. "And before you write off being polite as 'pretending to be something you're not,' think about whether your mother would go to France without attempting to learn the language or even the slightest bit of the local customs."

Emma had been a bit obsessive, actually, about fitting in in France before their first visit. Her mother-in-law hadn't appreciated it, but the rest of the country had been much more accommodating once they realized the English family was at least _trying_. Young Hermione must have realized this, too, because she flushed and mumbled, " _Je comprends_."

"Good. Now, my next class will be arriving any minute, but if you would like to continue this discussion, you may meet me here at four on Saturday for tea."

Young Hermione hesitated only a moment. "I'd like that very much. Thank you."

"You're welcome. See you on Saturday."

The girl nodded and headed for the door. Hermione grinned and decided not to warn Tom. It would be funnier that way.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **9 May, 1992**_

 _Surprise_

Tom looked between the two Hermiones with the completely blank expression that meant she had managed to take him genuinely by surprise. She smirked, infinitely pleased with herself.

"Hello, Tom, please come sit. Hermione was just telling me about how she and her friends have been trying to figure out what the Headmaster is hiding on the third floor. Hermione, this is my husband, Tom Riddle. Tom, Hermione is one of my first-year students."

"How do you do, Mr. Riddle," Young Hermione said politely as Tom took a seat.

"Quite well, thank you," he replied, blinking at the muggle greeting. "You… didn't mention a guest for tea," he observed, forcing his features to take on a less off-putting expression of mild curiosity.

"I thought it would make a nice surprise," Hermione grinned impishly.

"I didn't realize you were _married_ ," Young Hermione interrupted in a rather accusing tone. "I suppose that explains… Hmm…"

"Explains what?" Tom asked, still, clearly, to those who knew him well, genuinely disconcerted to be faced with the much-younger version of the girl he had eventually married.

"Oh! I looked in all the old yearbooks, and I couldn't find any Riddles until 1943. He rather looked like you, though," she answered cheerfully, happy, Hermione suspected, to have a solution to her little mystery. "Was he your father? Didn't you go here?"

Tom smirked. "Yes, he was, but I attended Durmstrang, over in Eastern Europe."

"Why?"

"My father and Professor Dumbledore rather detested one another. I think he was afraid Dumbledore would hold that against me."

The girl nodded understandingly. "Is that why you haven't told anyone you're married? So the Headmaster would give you a job?"

Hermione, only slightly embarrassed by the forwardness of her younger, more Gryffindor self, rolled her eyes. "No, it hasn't come up."

"Not even with the older years? Prefect Weasley thinks you're pretty."

Tom sniggered at his wife's blush. "Oh, have you been charming innocents? Perhaps I'll have to start calling you Lilith, instead of Eva, darling."

"I most certainly have not," she said, with all the dignity she could muster, just as Young Hermione asked, "Eva?"

"Oh, yes. My darling Maia here would sell her soul for a taste of knowledge without a second thought."

"And you?" the girl asked boldly.

"Pardon?"

"What would you sell your soul for?" There was a rather calculating look in the child's eyes that Hermione wasn't sure she liked.

Tom must have seen it as well, but he merely laughed. "Neither love nor money," he smirked, but added with a teasing look at Hermione, "but I wouldn't say no to eternal youth."

Perhaps, on second thought, introducing Tom to Young Hermione was not such a good idea.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **10 May, 1992**_

 _Reaching the Right Answer for All the Wrong Reasons_

"I'm telling you! The Riddles are trying to steal the Stone!"

"Hermione…" Ron's exasperation was evident in his tone.

"No, Ronald! He practically _admitted_ it! He said he would trade his soul for eternal youth! What more do you _want_? Professor Riddle is obviously a plant to get her husband into the castle! I can't _believe_ we didn't see it before!"

"But what about Snape?" Harry asked.

"Maybe he hates you for some other reason?" the girl suggested weakly.

"Or they're in it together, like I said from the beginning!" Ron said.

"Maybe… but Mr. Riddle said he went to Durmstrang, and I read they have a reputation for teaching all kinds of dark magic, and his father was enemies with the Headmaster. Even if Professor Snape is involved, I think he's the ringleader."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _10 June, 1992_**

 _Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon_

"What do you mean you _kidnapped a dragon_?" A rather irate Hermione asked, hands on her hips, staring down the Heir of Slytherin and his fearsome basilisk (now nearly two feet in length) in the Chamber of Secrets itself. The dragon in question ('Norbert') no more than a week or two old, was sedated and therefore curled peacefully in a corner of the enormous room.

"I think the Chamber could use a dragon. I mean, I wouldn't have gone to get one special, but now that she's here, I think she really brightens up the place."

This was, unfortunately, _not_ the most absurd thing Hermione had ever heard Tom say. "You can't _keep_ her."

"I'd do a much better job than _Hagrid_. I still can't _believe_ the Old Goat kept him on as a gamekeeper. At least I don't live in a wooden house."

"How is keeping a dragon in the castle any different from keeping a mad basilisk in the castle?" she asked, pinching the bridge of her nose in what she knew was a Snape-like gesture.

Tom gave her a superior smirk as he counted off reasons on his fingers. "One, dragons are traditional keepers of treasure, including libraries of ancient lore, such as the one I have _painstakingly_ recovered from various hiding-places throughout Europe over the last three months and returned to the Chamber, _again_. Two, a dragon would be unable to escape from the Chamber without help, seeing as it will quickly grow too large for any of the tunnels, and doesn't speak Parsel anyway. Three, binding spells. Four, it would have a relatively limited life-span – even ritually enhanced guardian dragons only last a few hundred years. Five, the Castle obviously doesn't have a problem with it, because the Oaths have not been triggered. So there."

"But… but… how are you going to feed it?" she asked, clearly grasping at straws as she tried to think of reasons that Tom should not be allowed to have a dragon.

"Oh, Hermione," he replied in his most condescending tone, "with _magic_."

"You're insane, Tom."

"You love me anyway."

"Shut up." She turned on her heel and stomped back up to the main school, decidedly put out with the exasperating man and his new 'pet.'

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _7 June, 1992_**

 _JK, It's Sorted_

 _Dear Charlie,_

 _You can tell your friends not to bother on Saturday. Hagrid's somehow lost the dragon. He says it's been kidnapped. But in any case, it's gone now. Thanks anyway,_

 _Ron_

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **26 June, 1992**_

 _The AU Time Travelers and the Philosopher's Stone_

"Oh, for the love of – Hermione! Just shut up about the exams!"

"Aren't you two even the least bit curious about how you've done?"

"No!" Ron insisted. Harry shook his head as well, looking a bit sheepish.

"Fine! I'm going to sit with Chelsea and Stacy then!" the girl said, storming off in a huff.

…

"Where do you think the Headmaster's got off to?" Chelsea asked, looking up to the head table.

"I heard there was an emergency Wizengamot session called today. He'll be in London, I imagine."

"He's _gone_?" Hermione repeated, shocked.

"That's what the upper years were saying at lunch," Stacy nodded. "I had it from Zuthe who had it from Moon who had it from her brother, you know, the Slytherin prefect?"

"Oh, that makes sense," Chelsea said. "The Slytherins always know what's going on with politics. Pass the pudding, Hermione?"

But Hermione had already disappeared down the table.

…

"I'm telling you, with Professor Dumbledore out of the castle, they have to be doing it _tonight_!"

"We have to tell someone," Harry said immediately.

"There's no time! They could already be in there!"

"But Professor Riddle was at dinner," Ron argued. "She couldn't have got that much of a head start!"

"But what if her husband has?"

"Okay." There was a note of steely resolve in Harry's voice. "Okay. We'll just have to go after them. They wouldn't try anything with witnesses there, would they?"

"No! No, I'm sure they wouldn't!"

"Right!" Ron jumped up. "Come on, then! What are you lot waiting for?"

The three of them slipped out of the common room, ignoring Percy's admonition to make sure they came back before curfew. There were more important things to worry about than _curfew_.

…

Tom conjured a handful of fiendfire to threaten the Devil's Snare and sneered at it when it unsurprisingly backed off. "Why couldn't we just use the back door?" he asked tetchily.

"For the sake of nostalgia, Tom! Plus I wanted to show you what I came up with for my bit."

"Oh, _fine_. Lead on."

…

The door to the third floor corridor was already ajar, with silvery strains of unearthly music floating out. When they peeked inside, the three children could not locate its source, but the three-headed dog was curled up, snoring loudly, so it hardly mattered. They heaved the trap-door open and prepared to jump.

…

 _"Accio proper key_!"

"Shoddy work, not enchanting them against that."

"Dumbledore admitted at the feast next year that it was all a test for the students. Couldn't make it _too_ hard."

…

"So light a fire!" Harry choked.

"Yes – of course – but there's no wood!"

"HAVE YOU GONE MAD? ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT?"

…

"Do we have to?"

"It's either this or fly over it."

"I _hate_ chess."

"I hate flying!"

"What kind of witch hates _flying_?"

"Oh, shut up, you hate brooms as much as I do."

"Brooms, yes, flying, no."

"Ugh, fine! We'll do it your way, I suppose."

"Stop bitching, I'm the one doing all the work," Tom complained, pulling Hermione close and lifting the two of them swiftly into the air.

"I don't like this, Tom," she said nervously, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly. "I don't like this _at all!_ "

…

"That one! That big one – there – no, there! With the blue wings!"

…

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, of course I am."

"Are you _sure_?"

" _Yes_ , will you just open the door already?"

Hermione was practically bouncing with excitement. "Alright, come in!" she said, opening the door and getting out of the way.

They were in a room apparently made of shadows, with a spotlight upon them. Out of the shadows stalked an apparition. An apparition dressed in white and cloaked in feathers, with a truly absurd codpiece and altogether too much glitter.

"Hermione."

"Yes, Tom?"

"I hate David Bowie."

"I know." She grinned and gave him her best evil laugh.

…

"Yes… It's the only way… I've got to be taken."

"NO!"

…

"I can't believe you made me do that."

"I wish I had thought to bring a camera."

"That was just – seriously, Hermione?"

"I don't see why you hate Jareth so much. 'Just fear me. Love me. Do as I ask, and I shall be your slave.' It's right up your alley."

"I hate you so much."

"Just dump the potion on the flames."

…

"Oh, Harry! It's Labyrinth! I love this movie!" Hermione stepped forward to face off against the Goblin King. "My will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great! You have no power over me!"

…

"So all you have to do is want the stone, but not want to use it? Should be simple enough. All I want it for is to prove to _you_ that even Dumbledore's not stupid enough to put the real stone at the end of a maze that a bunch of first-years can get through."

"I still think you underestimate his stupidity."

"What do you see?"

"You… probably don't want to know."

"Really? I see all the people I've lost over the years – mum and Lilian and Minerva – even a few of the friends I've grown apart from, too – Ginny and Neville."

"You really want me to tell you?"

"Of course. Have I ever _not_ wanted to know _anything_?"

"I see myself, bringing about the end of the world in blood and fire and terror beyond your wildest imaginings, leaving only the two of us alive, and fighting to the death, caught eternally in that timeless moment where the battle could shift either way."

Hermione felt herself go cold as his words washed over her. "Are you fucking with me, Tom?" she had to ask.

"No," he shrugged. "I told you that you didn't want to know."

She turned her back on him, so he couldn't see her expression of horror. "Why don't you, then?"

"Why don't I what?"

"Destroy the world."

"Oh! It's not a reasonable goal. Even if I did defeat Dumbledore, there are wizards on the continent who would stop me before it went that far. _You_ would stop me before I got anywhere close. The mirror doesn't show you the truth, only what you wish for."

She turned around rather hesitantly and stared at his reassuring smile for far too long a moment before she marshalled her words. "I love you, Tom, but you're a monster."

He moved to take her into his arms, and she didn't flinch away. He murmured into her hair, "But I'm your monster."

"You're supposed to say, 'I love you, too.'"

Tom hesitated. "I'd kill you last."

"Close enough."

Two children burst into the room, eyes wild. "You can't take the stone!" Young Hermione shouted.

"We won't let you!" Harry added.

"Do you _mind_?" Tom snapped. "We were having a _moment_!"

Hermione began laughing hysterically, and found she couldn't stop.

"What's so funny?" Young Hermione demanded.

"T-Tom," she gasped, tears coming to her eyes as she tried valiantly to recover her equilibrium. "Having a – ha! – having a _moment_!"

The children looked at each other in bewilderment and Tom glared at her. "I am fully capable of recognizing _moments_ when they occur in my general vicinity!" he said irritably.

She patted him condescendingly on the head, though she had to reach up to do so. "Yes, dear."

He huffed in response. Harry, apparently uninterested in _moments_ , wandered away to look at the mirror while Young Hermione watched the adults with an unidentifiable expression. "You two are weird."

"Takes one to know one," Tom snapped automatically, prompting more giggles from Hermione.

"Um, Hermione?" There was something like panic in Harry's tone and, when all three of them turned to him, in his wide, green eyes.

"You!" Tom exclaimed. "You've got it! Hand it over!"

Hermione turned and smacked her husband in the shoulder. "What have I told you about legilimizing kids?!"

"I didn't!" he defended himself. "It's written all over his bloody face!"

"Oh, sorry."

"You admit to being a monster, and this is what you get," he sighed. "Villainized at every turn. My life is _so hard_." Hermione buried her face in her hands, uncertain whether to laugh or kick him. "Hand over the Stone kid. We were here first."

Young Hermione gasped. "So you _are_ trying to steal it!"

"Only if it's the real one," the man said reasonably.

"Real one?" Harry asked.

"Even Dumbledore wouldn't be so stupid as to put the real Philosopher's Stone at the end of an obstacle course designed for _students_ to overcome," Hermione explained, yet again.

Tom, predictably, began to remind her that she over-estimated the Headmaster's intelligence, but he was interrupted by the two young Gryffindors defending his honor.

"The Headmaster's not stupid!" the girl cried, just as the boy insisted, "Dumbledore's a great man!"

Tom stopped dead to stare at them unblinkingly for a full five seconds. (Hermione counted.) "Dark Powers, I knew he was good, but, wow! You guys are _completely brainwashed_."

Hermione overruled their objections with her most professional teacher's voice. "Is this _really_ the time?"

She was met with a chorus of "No, ma'am," her husband lagging rather behind, with a certain degree of amusement in his tone.

And then he whipped out his wand and stunned both children silently.

"Tom!"

"The wards just pinged, he's almost back," the man explained as he rummaged through Harry's pockets.

"Oh, well, fine, then."

"Got it! I'll test it later."

The children were quickly _obliviated_ , led to believe that they had seen a dark shadow disappearing with the Stone, and stunned from behind as it left. Tom and Hermione made a hasty retreat through the Slytherin tunnels, Tom to the Chamber and Hermione to Snape's quarters, where she informed him she had been since dinner.

…

Snape accepted Hermione's cover-story with a nod and poured her a drink.

"So how about those Cannons," he said snarkily, prompting an eye-roll of epic proportions.

"How about not? What are you planning on working on over the summer?" she asked, falling into his spare armchair.

Discussions of experimental potions research carried them through until the Headmaster appeared to check up on their whereabouts.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{


	4. Chapter 4

**Tom and Hermione's Excellent Vacation**

AKA: The story of how AU Future Hermione and Tom Riddle kidnap… I mean _adopt_ Canon Harry.

 **Part IV**

* * *

 _ **8 July, 1992**_

 _An "Errand"_

"Powers, these are awful," Tom remarked, surveying the wards on the Dursley house. "Did he do them _himself_?"

"Probably."

"It looks like he just copied them out of a book – sloppy and hasty – the only thing they have going for them is it will trigger an alert if they're tampered with, otherwise I'd break them in half an hour."

"So what's the plan, then?" Hermione was much more nervous about the upcoming encounter than Tom.

"Well, seeing as the _illustrious_ Dumbledore has a very specific and narrow-minded concept of 'evil' it's probably best if I don't try knocking on his door. And with the meddling Ministry monitoring wards in place as well, you can't just waltz in and _obliviate_ the aunt, either."

"So I have to talk them out?"

"Yep." He popped the 'p.'

 _Damn it!_

…

"Hello Mrs… Dursley. My name is Maia Riddle, I'm with Social Services." This was, Petunia thought, a version of her worst nightmare. The one where someone found out about the boy and his _unnaturalness_ and everything she and her husband had tried in vain to get rid of the… _magic_. "We do home visits to check up periodically on children's placements, less often with their extended family, rather than foster homes, you understand, but nevertheless," she smiled apologetically, "I'm going to need to speak with the young Mr…" (She looked quickly at a conjured folder for effect.) "Harry Potter? You may, of course, as his guardian, be present as well, either here in your home, or I have a small stipend to take you out for coffee, for the inconvenience, you understand…"

It took Petunia all of half a second to decide she couldn't let this woman in the house. What if she sneaked upstairs and caught sight of the boy's room? "Wait here, just a moment, and I'll be back with the boy," she said with a tight smile.

…

Aunt Petunia hauled Harry roughly in from the garden and ordered him to change into his best clothes before dragging him back down the stairs again. "Don't you _dare_ say a _word_ in complaint, do you understand?"

"What's going on?"

"And don't ask questions!"

…

Hermione grinned and made a shushing gesture at Harry as Petunia Dursley locked their front door.

"We can take my car," she offered, leading them to a black sedan at the kerb.

Five minutes later, she quickly _sedated_ Petunia before parking at the nearest shopping mall.

"What's going on, Professor?" Harry asked nervously, looking at the slumped form of his aunt.

"Tom and I have a little errand that we need your help taking care of, if you don't mind," she said with an encouraging smile. "I can bring you right back after."

"Um… okay, I guess," the boy said, too trusting by half, and followed her out of the car.

"This is called side-along apparition. It's going to feel like being squeezed through a very small tube of nothingness, but it will be over quickly. Hold my hand tightly, yes, okay, here we go."

…

Harry reappeared with a small pop and a stumble, still clinging to the hand of his professor for dear life, in the middle of a dark but tastefully decorated entry hall. "Where –" he began, but his question was cut off by an Aramaic phrase and a flash of green light. Both he and his attacker fell bonelessly to the floor. Hermione sighed, and levitated them to a pair of sofas in the next room.

…

Tom squinted in the blinding white light that filled… King's Cross Station? Well, he supposed Harry had never seen the Chamber so his 'liminal space' couldn't be the same as Mary's. The boy appeared to be unconscious… and naked. Tom poked an arm with his toe, pointedly ignoring the squalling homunculus-like remnant of his alter-ego's counterpart's life spark and soul, gasping for breath under a nearby bench.

"Potter! Wake up."

"What?" The boy rolled over slowly and sat up. "What's going on? Mr. Riddle? Why aren't you wearing any clothes? Why aren't _I_ wearing any clothes?" A note of panic entered the boy's tone, and he scuttled away, backwards, on all fours. "Where are we? What have you done to me?"

Tom sniggered and took a seat on a bench – _not_ the one with the dying abomination beneath it. "In order, we are 'not-dying,' as I believe Mary put it; Yes, it is I, Tom Riddle, muahaha; I don't know why we aren't wearing any clothes, this is your mind, if you want clothes, make them; We're in your head… more or less; and I hit you with a killing curse in order to separate you," he pointed to the eleven-year-old, now wrapped in a sheet, "and _that_." He pointed again, this time at the abomination, and noticed he was also now wrapped in a sheet. "Oh, come on, robes can't be that much more difficult than sheets!"

The fabric shifted around him to form a robe. Still plain-cotton-sheet-white, but better than nothing. He smirked, thinking he probably looked like a bloody angel in white. " _Thank you_ ," he said sarcastically.

The boy, staring wide-eyed at the train-station and the abomination, said softly, "It's like a dream…"

Tom decided that allowing him to continue thinking that would be the course of least resistance. "Sure."

"You said you… hit me with a killing curse?" There was a faint note of accusation in his tone.

"Yep."

"Am I dead?"

"Nope."

"Are _you_ dead?"

Ha! "Nope."

"What _is_ that thing?"

"A broken-off bit of the 'Dark Lord Voldemort's soul and life-spark," Tom said, making a face.

"Is _it_ dead?"

"Almost." The flayed looking creature was no longer flailing, but simply lying there, staring at them malevolently with familiar, accusing red eyes. "Oh, shut up," he told it.

"Um…" Harry said.

"Not you."

" _What's going on_?" the boy asked again, rather desperately.

Tom sighed dramatically. "Okay, here's the Cliff's Notes version: Your mum did a bloody awesome soul magic protection ritual over you when you were like one and Voldemort tried to kill you, paired with an equally awesome retribution ward that destroyed the ever-loving fuck out of his body when he hit you with a killing curse, which was the only thing that could get through the pile of other wards she hid you behind. He couldn't die properly because of a thing called horcruxes, which are also pretty cool, if I do say so myself, but resulted in his disembodied soul getting sucked into her ritual and tied to you as a sort of protection, instead of hers. Remember: timing is _very important_ when it comes to executing your foes! Even if they are babies, and especially if it is prophesied that they have the power to defeat you.

"Hermione's already taken care of the horcruxes, because she is pathologically incapable of sitting around and doing nothing for two months, but she's also too much of a softie to AK a kid, so here we are, breaking one more tie," he pointed at the now-expired _thing_ under the bench, "between you and the almost completely late Lord Voldemort."

Harry was quiet for a long moment. "But why are _you_ here? Why – how do you know all that?"

"I'm here because I'm using back-door legilimency on you through your connection to Voldemort, based on _my_ connection to him to explain things to you and make sure you don't actually die because I've only done this once before, and I'm not at all sure I trust you not to bollocks it up. And I know all this because I'm an ex-horcrux from an alternate universe and twenty-odd years in the future. Been here, done this, got the good life waiting for me back in my own time and place."

The boy looked slightly disturbed by that. Tom couldn't imagine why that should be any _more_ disturbing than the rest of it, especially the being-hit-with-a-killing-curse (again) bit, but he gave an internal shrug. Maybe the kid was just weird, or too young and innocent to be properly afraid of death.

"I think I'd like to… go back, now…" he said, somewhat faintly.

"Oh, good. About time," Tom said, nearly sighing in relief (he really didn't like being inside a mind poised on the edge of death), and stood suddenly to grasp the boy's chin, slipping behind his eyes as easily as breathing and wrenching his consciousness around to where it ought to be.

…

Harry woke up, gasping for breath, and sat bolt upright. He was on a sofa – a green sofa – in a room he had definitely never seen before. Professor Riddle was hovering over him, wand out, casting a charm he recognized from one of his many trips to the infirmary over the course of the year.

There was a groan from the other side of the room, where Mr. Riddle was sitting up slowly, a three and a half-foot-long snake slithering into his lap as he moaned for a headache cure. The professor tossed him a vial and he downed it at once. "Powers, secondhand legilimency is the _worst_."

"Worse than assimilating the horcrux?" the professor asked, sounding surprised.

"Okay, maybe the second-worst."

"Wha – what just happened?" Harry found himself asking.

"I just _told_ you," Mr. Riddle snapped.

Professor Riddle smiled kindly. "You didn't die."

"Oh, good," he said, his mouth feeling very far away. He thought he heard the snake say _:What is wrong with the hatchling?:_ as he lost consciousness.

…

 _:Hatchling?:_

 _:Hatchling?:_

 _:Hatchling?:_

Harry opened his eyes slowly, and closed them at once as he realized that the weight on his chest belonged to an enormous snake. He opened them again. It was still there. _:Um. Hi,:_ he said, feeling a bit silly talking to a snake. He hadn't since Dudley's last birthday, and even that, he thought, might have been some fluke of accidental magic. _:I'm just going to sit up, nice and easy…:_

 _:Speaker?:_

 _:What?:_

 _:You_ are _!:_

 _:I am what?:_

The snake fled without answering.

…

 _:Speaker! Speaker! The Hatchling is awake!:_ Jory said as loudly as he could on locating the room with the Speaker and his mate.

 _:World-Serpent, did you wake him on purpose? I told you to let him sleep!:_

Jory climbed up the Speaker's mate's body, coiling around her shoulders. She was always warmer than the Speaker. _:Not on purpose. I was just there when he woke. Did you know the hatchling is also a speaker?:_

 _:Of course I did. It is part of the reason he is important.:_

 _:Oh. That makes sense.:_

 _:It does, doesn't it?:_

"Tom?"

"It seems our guest has awakened."

"All on his own, with no help from Jory?"

"Probably not."

…

Shortly after his brief and confusing conversation with the snake, Professor and Mr. Riddle came back to the room where Harry was still lying on the same green sofa. The snake was coiled around the professor's shoulders with its head resting atop her own. She seemed if not pleased about this, then at least resigned to it.

"Hello, Harry," she said calmly, sitting slowly so as not to startle the snake (or perhaps so as not to startle Harry). "I hear you met Jory."

"Jormungandr," Mr. Riddle corrected. _:_ _World-Serpent in the snake language.:_

The snake perked up at that, saying, _:_ _Hello, hatchling, whom I definitely did not awaken.:_

 _:Um, what?:_

Professor Riddle sighed. "English, if you please, Harry."

"She can't speak Parsel," Mr. Riddle said smugly. "It bothers her to no end."

"Sorry," Harry muttered, looking back and forth between the two. "Um… is it common, for wizards to speak to snakes?"

Mr. Riddle snorted. "Not hardly. It's hereditary."

"What does that mean?"

"Hmm…" Mr. Riddle said quietly, and then in a wheedling tone, "Hermione, I think it's your turn."

"What? No!"

"I gave him the 'soul connection to Voldemort' talk. You can handle 'so your grandfather is a genocidal maniac!'" he whispered, just loudly enough for Harry to overhear.

"What?!"

…

"So does this mean I can stay with you instead of the Dursleys for the rest of the summer?"

Both Tom and Harry fixed Hermione with pleading eyes.

She caved almost at once. "Fine! But he's going back to Hogwarts in September! No arguments!"

"Yes!" Harry nearly shouted. Tom offered him a high-five and a grin. Neither of them noticed Hermione's eyes narrowing at this blatant manipulation.

"Come on, then, Harry," she said, standing up and holding out her hand.

"What? No! You just said I could stay!"

Hermione smiled. "You can, but we do need to fetch your trunk and do _something_ about your aunt, first."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _31 July, 1992_**

 _Sirius Black, Dogfather_

"What do you mean I have a godfather? Where's he been all these years?"

"In wizard-gaol. Azkaban. It's supposed to be horrible, but I've always thought it a bit boring myself."

"Gaol? What for?"

"Setting up your parents to be murdered, but he was framed."

"He's – he's not still there, is he? If you know he was framed?"

"What, no, of course not! Hermione broke him out ages ago. He's coming over for tea."

"What?! Why didn't anyone mention before _now?_ "

"Birthday surprise?"

" _Professor Riddle?_ " Harry bellowed, running from the room he had claimed for himself. "Is it true I've got an escaped convict godfather who's coming to tea for my birthday?!" It had taken a surprisingly short time for Harry to realize that Tom often lied just to amuse himself.

Hermione looked up from repairing a crumbling scroll to see Harry dart across the room and make a flying leap into an armchair, followed by a more-sedate, smirking Tom. "Damn it, Tom, I _told_ you Sirius wanted to tell him himself!"

Tom shrugged elegantly, hands in his pockets. "I owed him for the pick-up contest."

"That was five years ago, _in a different universe_!"

"So?"

…

Sirius broke down in wracking sobs, throwing his arms around Harry, who looked like he wanted nothing more than to escape. He patted the wizard awkwardly on the head. "Y-you look just l-like James," he howled, "but with L-Lily's eyes!"

"Sirius!" Hermione commanded, "Padfoot!"

The man looked up and sniffled, then nodded before turning into a very large black dog with a 'pop' and curling up beside Harry's chair, his head on the boy's bare feet.

"My grandfather is Voldemort and my godfather is a dog?"

"It's a complicated family tree," Tom said with a straight face.

"He's an animagus, Harry," Hermione explained, trying to suppress a laugh. "A wizard who can turn into a single animal at will. He's still going through therapy trying to recover from his time in Azkaban, but he finds it difficult to deal with the full range of human emotions anymore. Sometimes, when it's all too overwhelming, it's best for him to shift into Padfoot."

"Oh." By this point, it was becoming rather difficult to phase the boy anymore. "So, um… is there cake?"

…

A house elf appeared with a crack in the middle of the sitting room, startling the three humans, the dog and the basilisk lounging around the room at that time. The dog and the basilisk lunged at the intruder, which only just managed to avoid them by popping to the top of a very high bookcase instead.

"Dobby is coming to warn Harry Potter sir," he shouted over Padfoot's growling, "That Harry Potter sir must not bes returning to Hogwarts!"

"Okay," Tom said calmly, "Great. Thanks for the warning. If you ever approach Harry Potter again, I will track you down and torture you for at least hmm… three weeks, before I kill you."

The elf vanished with a frightened squeak. Harry turned from the bookcase to Tom in shock.

"What the hell, Tom?!" Hermione glared at her husband. Death threats in front of children were just _not on._

"Frankly, he's lucky I didn't kill him _this_ time. Those bloody things are a menace!"

"What's going on?" Sirius asked, finally transforming back into a human.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at the point from which the elf had vanished. "Apparently Lucius is still going to attempt to make trouble at Hogwarts despite the fact that he no longer has access to a certain artefact I… _removed_ from his hands."

"Lucius _Malfoy_?" Sirius asked.

"Is he related to Draco?"

"His father. I wouldn't worry, though," Tom assured Harry and Sirius. "Lucius is pathetically incompetent." He shook his head sadly. " _Abraxas_ would have been a decent threat, but Lucy?"

 _:Dead frog?:_ Harry asked, testing out one of the new Parsel insults Jory had taught him for his birthday.

 _:_ Rotting _dead frog, not even suitable for eating,:_ Tom corrected, to the amusement of both the boy and the basilisk.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **5 August, 1992**_

 _A Brilliant (Certifiable) Idea_

Tom leaned casually against the inside of the doorframe of Harry's room. Harry left off pretending to do his summer homework to face the older wizard.

"How would you feel about being adopted?" he asked rather abruptly.

"By who?" Harry asked suspiciously.

Tom smirked. "By me. And Hermione, obviously."

Harry spent nearly two minutes thinking this over before realizing that, as strange and unsettling as they might be, the Riddles were the only adults (not counting Sirius) who had ever been honest and welcoming to him… for a given value of 'honest.' He grinned. He could think of nothing better than living with the two of them from now on instead of the Dursleys, and having a real family of his very own. "Yes!"

"Excellent!" Tom clapped excitedly. "Now we just have to get to the Ministry before –"

"TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE! Get your arse down here _right now_!"

…

Tom and Harry sat on the sofa while Hermione paced before them, looking for all the world like scolded schoolboys.

"Why, Tom, have the goblins sent me a letter confirming direct consanguineous inheritance between you and Harry?"

"Um…"

"The _truth_ , Tom."

"Because that's the only way we can adopt him without Dumbledore finding out?"

"Adopt? Tom! We can't adopt him!"

"Why not?!" Harry shouted. It wasn't fair, getting his hopes up and then smashing them like that.

Hermione wasn't talking to him, though. "We have to go back! You're the one who wanted to go back!"

Tom shrugged, affecting nonchalance. "We can take him with us."

"We can – are you _insane_? No! Don't answer that! This is a" ("Brilliant?") " _certifiable_ idea! What were you thinking?!"

"Boy Who Lived adopted by long-lost relatives Mr. and Mrs. TM Riddle? Old Albie's head might just explode."

"Is that the only reason you offered to adopt me?" Harry couldn't help but ask, in a very quiet voice, his heart breaking in ways he didn't know it could.

Tom looked confused. "Yes?"

Tears began pricking Harry's eyes, and he ran from the room.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "Wrong answer, Tom!"

…

"Harry?" Hermione called softly, following the angry hissing sounds to Harry's closet, where she found him sitting with Jory, presumably telling him what had just happened.

The boy turned his back to her and continued talking to the snake.

"Harry, please look at me."

More hissing.

"Harry, you're not just the Boy Who Lived, to me or to Tom, regardless of how much an idiot he might be about human interactions."

"You don't care about me! You don't want to adopt me! And Tom only wants to because he wants to get one over on Dumbledore!"

Hermione sighed. "We do care. Both of us. But if we adopt you, we'll have to take you with us when we go home. Twenty years in the future, in a world where 'Harry Potter' never existed. Remember, I told you your counterpart's name is Mary? And she's my age."

"I _know_ , and you're really Hermione Granger, even though you're nothing alike. And Tom is kind of but not really my grandfather."

"Yes, and if you came home with us, you would have to leave _your_ Hermione and Ron Weasley here. You'd never be able to contact them again, and you'd have to make a place for yourself in a whole new world."

"What about Sirius?" he asked in a small voice.

Tom sighed from the doorway. "I _suppose_ we could take him, too. I mean, it's not like he has much going for himself in this world, being an escaped convict and all."

Apparently reminded of Tom's rejection, however, Harry scowled. "Never mind, you didn't want to adopt _me_ in the first place."

Tom looked a bit offended, but Harry, still out of his sightline in the closet, missed it. "Of course I didn't _want_ to adopt you. I shouldn't _have_ to. You're already _mine,_ by _blood_ , and will be coming home with us regardless." Hermione raised an eyebrow at her husband over this, but elected not to interrupt. They would _definitely_ be talking about that _later_ though. "It's utterly ridiculous to think that the bloody government ought to have any say in it whatsoever."

Harry poked his head out of the closet and glared at the older wizard. "What about Dumbledore?"

"The only reason to actually, formally adopt you is to twist his knickers so hard his head explodes."

"Swear it," the boy demanded, scrambling to his feet.

Tom rolled his eyes, but did so. "I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, swear before the Dark Powers themselves, that Harry Potter belongs to me, adoption or not, by blood and by magic, in this and every other universe!"

Harry nodded, apparently satisfied, and obviously slightly embarrassed. "Jory and I are going to go hunt in the gardens," he said, and excused himself.

Hermione sighed as she watched him go. "I think he gets his emotional maturity from you."

"Don't be daft, Hermione. If I had been told that I was to be adopted when I was twelve, I would have stabbed anyone who tried to take it away from me, not run off to hide in a closet."

"You're serious about this? You can't just drop being his father if you get bored. And it's not going to be at all like coming into Mary's life when she was already seventeen."

"I _know that._ But I stand by what I said. He is _mine_ , like you and Mary are _mine_ , and he's coming home with us."

"About that… It's poor form to make life-changing decisions that affect other people without at least _pretending_ to take our thoughts on the matter into account."

"You're the one who didn't want to leave when we had the chance. You had your say."

"That's not fair, and you know it."

Tom captured her mouth in a searing kiss before grinning and whispering. "You like that about me."

"Oh, shut up. Apparently we have papers to go sign."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **14 August, 1992**_

 _Mr. Riddle_

Harry's Hogwarts Letter arrived at breakfast on a Friday, halfway through August. He stared at it in slight consternation, as it was addressed to Mr. H Potter Riddle.

Tom peered over his shoulder. "Oh, good, they left out the hyphen."

"The what?"

"The little dashy-thing they like to put between the words in 'You Know Who' or 'Boy Who Lived.' They've left it out, so properly speaking, informally, you're just Mr. Riddle. If it was Potter _dash_ Riddle, you'd still be Mr. Potter, informally. Congratulations, the adoption has been a bureaucratic success."

From the look on Tom's face, Hermione rather thought he hadn't expected his news to be greeted with quite so enthusiastic a hug. She, meanwhile, had taken the opportunity of their distraction to open the letter and have a peek at the book list.

"Oh, bloody hell."

"What?"

"He's hired Lockhart again!"

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _30 August, 1992_**

 _Catching Up on the Train_

"I saw in the papers, Harry, but how did you get adopted by… Professor Riddle?"

"Yes, I've been wondering that, too! And why you haven't written back all summer! Were they keeping you prisoner or something? I bet you've got Stockholm syndrome! Oh, Harry!"

"What? No! I wasn't a prisoner! I never got your letters. Listen, none of this leaves this compartment, alright?"

Ron and Hermione leaned in close as Harry recounted about half of the summer's revelations.

…

"That has to be the biggest load of bullocks I've ever heard. And I grew up with Fred and George."

"No, it's true."

"But… Harry… How do you know? I mean, for sure?"

"I… um…" Harry wracked his brains. "Well, the goblins proved that I was Tom's grandson, and we're both Parselmouths?"

"Blimey, Harry! Don't go saying things like that!"

"Why not?"

"Why not? Harry! Salazar Slytherin and _You Know Who_ were Parselmouths! It's Dark magic. You must have caught it from You Know Who as a baby!"

Harry smirked, rather unaware how much he looked like Tom in that moment. "You can't _catch_ Parseltongue. If you could, I'm sure Professor Riddle would have done by now. It's _hereditary_. That means it's in your blood."

"I know what – Wait! Does that mean you're related to You Know Who?" Hermione asked, putting the pieces together slightly faster than Ron.

"What?!" The redhead sat back quickly, leaning away from Harry.

"Well, um… you see…"

Harry had just finished recounting the other half of the summer's revelations to his friends' gaping astonishment when Draco Malfoy opened their compartment door.

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?" Harry asked.

"You gave up the name _Potter_ to take on some common house no one's ever heard of?" the blond asked in his most scathing tone.

"Um… no, I don't think so. It's Potter Riddle, now, but without the dash, so I think you're supposed to call me Riddle, but I'm still the Heir of Potter." He honestly hadn't paid too much attention to the inheritance nonsense, as he planned to _leave the universe_ at Yule. Plus, as far as he was concerned, he was far better off _not_ being 'Harry Potter, infamous Boy Who Lived,' anyway. But both Tom and Maia had been very insistent that he should keep Potter, too. All three of the others looked at him like he'd grown a second head, rather than taking on a second surname. "What?"

"You… you sounded almost like Malfoy, there, for a second, mate," Ron explained.

"… Sorry?"

"Aaand there we go," Malfoy drawled. "Normality has been restored to the universe."

"What?"

"You don't _apologize_ for sounding like a _proper wizard_ , Riddle," the Slytherin explained in his most condescending tone.

"Bugger off," _:_ _Baby mouse,:_ Harry said dismissively, the Parsel insult a matter of habit. "Um, oops?" he added as Malfoy's eyes grew wide and Hermione slammed the door closed.

"Damn it, Harry, now the whole school's going to know."

"Oops?" he repeated.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{


	5. Chapter 5

**Tom and Hermione's Excellent Vacation**

AKA: The story of how AU Future Hermione and Tom Riddle kidnap… I mean _adopt_ Canon Harry.

 **Part V**

* * *

 _ **31 August, 1992**_

 _Notecards_

A note was delivered to Gryffindor table at breakfast on the very first day of classes:

 _Mr. Potter,_

 _Please come see me at your earliest convenience. You will be excused from your classes._

 _Albus PBW Dumbledore_

 _PS, I like sugar quills._

Harry hastily scribbled a note of his own on the back and handed it to the owl. A very bemused Professor Snape found the following note waiting for him as he left his quarters for the first potions-lesson of the term:

 _Prof. Snape,_

 _Tom and Maia said to ask you to come with me if Bumbles invited me up to his office._

 _What do I say? (see other side)_

 _Harry Riddle_

…

A very small parchment airplane found its way to Harry during his first lesson and unfolded itself to reveal the Potions Master's cramped hand:

 _A response is not required. I will accompany you. It will be convenient to wait until after dinner.  
Prof. Snape_

…

"Ah, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said brightly as Harry entered the office at the top of the tower. "I was beginning to think you weren't – Severus? Is there something I can help you with?"

"Oh, no, Albus, I think you'll find I'm just here to ensure that you don't use legilimency on the boy or try to prevent his leaving or the like. I certainly wasn't given any specific instructions."

"I… see." The degree of twinkle in the Headmaster's eyes dropped precipitously. "As I was saying, then, Mr. Potter…"

"Um, sorry, Headmaster, but, uh… It's Riddle, now," Harry corrected him.

"Pardon?"

"It's Riddle. Mr. Riddle. Or, I guess, Mr. Potter Riddle. But you have to include the Riddle. It's _very important_."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and Severus had to violently crush the urge to laugh at the boy's earnestness. "Well, that is just what I wanted to speak to you about, Harry, my boy."

"What is, sir?"

"Your adoption. Surely you don't want to give up your last connection to your parents, your father's name…?"

"Oh, wait, hold on, I've got notes for this," Harry said, pulling a rather large stack of note-cards from his pocket and rifling through it. "Okay, name as the last connection to parents… It's not – I'm keeping Potter, and James, even, as my middle name, for one. Secondly, everyone says I look just like James, with Lily's eyes, so it's not like I'm ever going to forget them. Thirdly, Tom and I are already related by blood, so I'm not replacing anyone, just moving in with my last _magical_ blood relatives." He shoved that card back in his pocket.

Severus was torn between shock at the blood connection, which neither Tom nor Hermione had mentioned the previous term, and hilarity at the look on Dumbledore's face. He would have bet all the galleons he owned that the note-cards had been Hermione's idea.

"Please, Harry, I would like to hear what _you_ have to say, not what others have coached you to say."

"I'm um, not great, at speaking under pressure, sir. But, um… Tom and Maia, they told me what kind of things you would say, so I could figure out what to say back beforehand." He held up his stack of what cards with the same earnest expression. "I did write the ones that are supposed to come from me."

"The ones… from you?"

Harry nodded eagerly. "I asked Sirius about what James would say, and Maia said she and Professor Snape talked a lot about Lily, so I have what she would say, too, and a few notes from Maia and Tom and Sirius as themselves."

"Sirius? Sirius Black?"

"He was framed."

"You've _spoken_ to him?"

"He came to my birthday party."

"At the Dursleys?"

Harry laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "The only person who thinks I'd be better off with the Dursleys is _you_. Maia saved me from them first week of the hols."

"Harry, my _dear_ boy, it is _vitally important_ for your own safety that you return to your Aunt's house over the holidays – the wards there –"

"Oh, wait! Hang on! I know there was one about wards in here somewhere. It was one of Tom's. Got it!

"'If he mentions the blood wards at Petunia Dursley's house, tell him for me that not only are they illegal, shame on him, Leader of the Light my arse, but they are also only minimally effective due to the third-degree relationship between yourself and Petunia. He also should know better by his age than to just copy ward-schemes out of a book – just because you're doing it yourself doesn't mean you're doing it right,'" Harry read off. "And then there's a bunch of maths that Maia said is Arithmancy, and '24 minutes, tops.' Here." He passed that card across the desk to Dumbledore, who set it aside without even looking at it.

"Harry, my boy, I'm concerned that the Riddles may have been lying to you."

"They wouldn't," Harry denied swiftly. "Tom only does to be funny, and Maia _always_ tells me the truth!"

"Harry," Dumbledore said mournfully, "Sirius Black betrayed your parents. He was the keeper of –"

"The Fidelius Charm, yes, I know." Yet another note-card was shuffled to the top of the stack. "'I was framed, you meddling old bastard. James, Lily and I broke the damn charm and re-cast it on Pettigrew so I could continue to fight. The rat lied, before he blew up the street and ran down to the sewer with the other rats.' Um, he didn't put it in, but he, Pettigrew, and my dad were all animagi. Pettigrew is _really_ a rat."

"Harry, I know this will be difficult for you to believe, but Sirius Black _killed_ Peter Pettigrew, along with a dozen muggle witnesses, just after your parents died."

"No, he didn't. Peter Pettigrew is in Azkaban, in Sirius' old cell."

"What do you mean, Harry?"

"He was hiding, as a rat. My friend Ron's pet rat, actually. Maia caught him and let Sirius choose if he wanted to try for a legal battle or not, and he said to just get him out of that hellhole, so she did, and left the Rat there instead."

"Harry, these are very serious crimes you are admitting to!"

A brief shuffle, and then, "'I'm not admitting to anything. I'm twelve. I can't even talk in court, let alone be held accountable for things other people did, no matter how hard the Wizengamot tries.'"

"Well, that is true, but…"

"'But nothing, old man. You aren't above the law, even if you want everyone in your little kingdom to think you are.' And then there's a little heart that's colored in black and Tom's initials."

"Harry."

"Could you stop saying my name so much, sir? It's creepy."

"H – my boy, I think we're getting off topic." That Harry was surprised there was a set 'topic' to get off of was written clearly across his face, as was his opinion that 'my boy' was hardly less creepy than the constant use of his given name. "Tom Riddle is a very dangerous wizard, you should not be associating with him under any circumstances!"

"He said you were enemies with his father, which is why he had to go to Durmstrang. My mum only got to go here because no one knew who _her_ father really was."

"Lily Potter was muggleborn!" Dumbledore objected, before Severus could, which was probably just as well.

"Nope." _Shuffle_. "Tom says: 'Lily was the daughter of Tom Marvolo Riddle and Matilde Harrison, a muggleborn auror. They weren't married, but if my father had realized he had a daughter, she most definitely would not have been sent to grow up in ignorance with her mother's muggle relatives when the woman was hospitalized.'"

"Harry, my boy, you can't tell me you've fallen for this… this _fiction_ they've been feeding you all summer. You poor boy!"

"It's not a _story_! It's the _truth!_ "

"Harry, I'm sure you're just confused."

"Then how do you explain I'm a Parselmouth?"

"When Voldemort tried to kill you, my boy, he transferred some of his powers to you…"

"No, he got stuck in some kind of protection ward and ripped himself in two! I was helping him stay alive, and nobody told me until Tom hit me with a Killing Curse over the summer!"

Dumbledore blanched. Severus froze. He hadn't realized that they had told the boy _everything,_ let alone taken care of the accidental anchor point already.

"He hit you with the Killing Curse?"

"Well, _yeah_. What would you have done? They had to get rid of it somehow."

"I… I thought…"

 _Shuffle_. "'You thought he would have to die to rid the world of Voldemort, that's why you left him at the Dursleys, you wretched excuse for a wizard. You've been molding him into your perfect sacrifice all along. I can't believe I ever thought you were a good man.' That one's from Maia," the boy glared.

"Harry, I know it may be difficult for you, but you must renounce the hold the Riddles have over you – it is the only way to fulfil your destiny and finally defeat Voldemort once and for all!"

Harry scoffed. "You know what, this is a waste of time. You're not even listening to me. They should have just sent a letter. Here," he dropped the rest of the cards on the Headmaster's desk. "And Tom said I should tell you they're pulling me from Hogwarts at the winter hols. He said he knew you'd never be able to deal with having his father's grandson in your school. I thought he was wrong, but I guess not."

"Mr. Potter, you can't leave Hogwarts!" the Headmaster objected as Harry turned to go. "Magical Britain needs you!"

Harry gave the old wizard, now on his feet, a rather strange smile. "No, they _really don't_. And it's _Riddle_."

The boy left the room before the Headmaster could recover from his shock. Severus lingered only long enough to raise an eyebrow at the old man, then turned on his heel and followed, wondering how he could have so clearly missed Potter's calling as a Slytherin all the previous year.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _22 September, 1992_**

 _Revelations of Mabon_

 _Mr. Riddle,  
If you care to attend, there will be a celebration of ritual magic honoring the Dark Power Experience today at noon in the Largest Courtyard.  
Prof. Snape_

…

"Where did you go at lunch, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"Saved you a sandwich, mate," Ron said, handing over the sandwich in question.

"I was, um, invited to this thing, for the holiday?"

"Holiday?" Hermione was clearly worried to be missing out on something.

"Mabon."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Don't worry about it, Hermione. Only the really stuck up old fashioned wizards celebrate it anymore."

"There had to be over a hundred people there, Ron! Most of the Slytherins, and like, half of Ravenclaw."

"How'd you find out about it?" Ron asked. "You're not hanging around with the snakes now, are you?"

"I got a note from Professor Snape, and followed a Slytherin. Did you know there's a courtyard on top of the roof of the Great Hall?"

…

"So you're telling me it is the real stone?"

"That's what Alethea said."

"And that it's absolutely worthless, since it doesn't do anything you don't have an alternative solution for?"

" _And_ the Elixir of Life is apparently incredibly addictive."

"Well, _bother_."

"We can still design a few experiments and see if it has any other uses. I don't think Flamel ever used it for much beyond gold and the Elixir."

"On the Twelve Uses of the Philosopher's Stone?"

"That might be too ambitious. Seven, maybe."

"Too ambitious?" Hermione aped astonishment. "Who are you and what have you done with Tom?"

"Tom has plans this afternoon which have nothing whatsoever to do with alchemical experiments."

"Oh, is that so?" the witch asked as her husband moved closer to her.

He hummed his confirmation as he captured her mouth with his, then added, when they came up for air, "And after that I thought I'd take Jory back to school."

"You're free now?"

"Entirely at loose ends."

"Good," Hermione grinned, thoroughly snogging him back. "Because I have a few plans of my own to implement."

…

"What do you mean, there's nothing you can do? Amelia! They broke a convicted murderer out of _Azkaban_!"

"I'm sorry, Albus, but the dementors report that the cell in question is occupied, and there have been no suspicious activities at the prison for months. Your 'evidence' consists of the informal testimony of an underage boy who you freely admitted you believe has been lied to extensively over the past two months. I'm inclined to say that the escape of Sirius Black is one of the less-than-credulous pieces of all you've told me."

"Well, what about Riddle? Have you heard back from Karkaroff yet?"

"He insists that Riddle graduated and earned high honors while doing so back in '69. He also asks why the Headmaster of Hogwarts is so interested in the Alumni of Durmstrang, and why you would go through the Magical British Ministry to make your inquiries."

"I simply wished to establish a formal record of inquiries, Amelia."

"Yes, well, if that's all, I do have a ministry department to run…"

"Quite."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _9 October, 1992_**

 _Breaking Bad News_

"What do you mean you're not coming back after the holiday?" Hermione looked entirely lost.

"We're moving. Remember how I told you they're from another universe? They're going home at Yule, and I'm going with them."

"But, Harry, _why_?"

" _Because_ , Hermione, I hate being here and being Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived. Dumbledore keeps pushing me to stay and be like, some destined savior to kill Voldemort _again_ , even though Maia and Tom _said_ they'll take care of him before we go, and everyone's been horrible to me since they found out I'm a Parselmouth –"

"And whose fault is that?" the girl interrupted.

"That's not the point! It shouldn't matter if I can talk to snakes or not, and it really bugs me that they all act like I've been lying to them or something my whole life, even though I never even heard of magic until a year and a half ago!"

"But…"

"But _what_ , Hermione? I'm not staying."

"It's just… I'll miss you," she said hesitantly. "You were my first friend, and I… I don't want to lose you to them."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **31 October, 1992**_

 _(Almost) Always Dramatic_

"By my blood, my magic, and my very life, I declare myself none of his! Let the connection between us be torn asunder, no longer anchored by the other, but each of us free, and by his own fate bound!"

"Are you always so _dramatic_?" an otherworldly voice asked curiously.

Tom smirked and turned to see a goddess wearing the face of Lily Evans, perhaps sixteen years old. "Almost always. My Lady Adrestia, long time no see."

"Well, whose fault is that? Go on, then, make your sacrifice."

"For you, milady," he bowed elaborately, "anything," and traced a rune of breaking over his heart, the ivory blade of his ceremonial knife cutting deep. The connection between himself and Voldemort-in-the-lamp grew clear, a tainted thread like old blood between them.

The goddess giggled. "The Lady was right, you are a charmer. Too bad you never were one for commitment. You would have made a great crusader."

"Never say never, milady," Tom offered.

"Well, and having said so, I shall be most disappointed if you decide to declare for anyone else in the end," she informed him, stalking close and poking him in the chest. " _Most_ disappointed. Got it?"

"Revolution is in my soul, milady. I wouldn't dare."

" _Good_." And with that she took his athame and made a vicious swipe through the horcrux bond. It vanished in a flash of non-being, darkness beyond mortal ken. She handed the knife back, hilt-first, releasing it with a lingering touch, a finger traced along the blade. "Until next time, Tom Riddle."

The goddess vanished without a trace, as suddenly as she had appeared.

Hermione was curled in an armchair with a book, which she had entirely abandoned to watch Tom's ritual. "Does it ever get old, flirting with gods and magic itself?" she asked, raising a curious eyebrow at him.

He didn't even pretend to think about it. "No, it really doesn't."

"Even when they look like your daughter?"

"It's not like I ever knew her as my daughter."

"Oh, shut up and kiss me. I'm suddenly feeling the need to remind the universe that you have, on occasion, made a commitment or two."

…

In Azkaban Prison, Bellatrix Black felt the magic tethering her to her Lord shatter as, miles away, a mudblood witch with an axe to grind cast a final killing curse on the last object tying Lord Voldemort's life-spark to the mortal plane. She collapsed inward upon herself, and the dementors swarmed in, delighted (if such beings can be said to delight) to finally have some sort of reaction from the strangely inhuman witch.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _1 November, 1992_**

 _One Master Down, One to Go_

 _Harry,  
Maia says: Come down to the Chamber.  
V is done.  
There is cake.  
Tom_

…

"Severus," Albus greeted his Potions Master coldly. He still had not forgiven Snape for supporting Harry Potter in his bid to betray the light by joining the _Riddles_ and abandoning his destiny.

"Headmaster," the man in question said, passing him a letter.

Albus' would admit, his curiosity was somewhat piqued. The younger wizard was seldom so polite in private. "What is it?"

"My resignation. Effective at the end of term."

Albus plastered his most patronizing smile across his face. "My dear boy, you can't _resign_." Severus Snape was bound to serve him until his former Lord was entirely destroyed. He had been placed at Hogwarts as a spy, and remained at Albus' pleasure, partly to keep an eye on the despicable man, and partly so that, when Voldemort returned to power, which he was _certain_ the foul creature would, he could take up his old place as a double agent without undue questioning. He was, quite simply, _not allowed_ to resign, despite his repeated attempts to escape.

"I think you will find that the terms of my oath have been fulfilled," the Slytherin said, with a cruel twist of his lips.

"You mean?"

After several suspenseful minutes of unbuttoning, Snape's left forearm was exposed. "It's gone. He's gone. You have no grounds to hold me any longer."

"Ah, but Tom Riddle is still working his evil in this world," Albus scrambled, shaking his head in mock-sorrow. He could not lose his Potions Master halfway through the year! It was bad enough constantly having to replace Defense instructors. "His people, his movement, still work to further his agenda in our government. His son, now, has taken to corrupting our best hope –"

"Our best hope for what? Defeating a man who has just been killed, once and for all? Or for creating your little Light utopia out of Magical Britain?"

Albus glared at his impertinence. Snape had never been one to roll over before him, but neither would Albus cave to his demand for his indenture to be released. Even if Snape's vow no longer bound him, there was always the unspoken threat that Albus had saved him from Azkaban, and could easily return him there, should Snape fail to obey his orders. The failed dark wizard _would_ be made to serve the Light, regardless of his own desires. "I can, and I will, continue to enforce your bond. You swore yourself into my service unconditionally, and you will _continue_ to serve until _I_ deem the threat of Voldemort to have passed entirely."

Snape's eyes, always dark, suddenly seemed incredibly foreboding, as he said in far too calm a tone, "I expected nothing less from you."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _4 November, 1992_**

 _Lemon Drops_

For the first time in ten years, Severus Snape did _not_ provide a house elf with the weekly doctored supply of lemon drops to switch with the muggle candies Dumbledore bought for himself. These contained the antidote to the poison which had been lurking in the Headmaster's liver since Severus realized that in his grief, he had not found a way away from one master, but simply enslaved himself to a second.

The last of the antidote should pass through the old man's system within a month. He would be dead by Christmas, for his betrayal of their agreement, and Severus would be free. _Finally_.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _7 November, 1992_**

 _"It is what I want."_

"Oi, cheer up, mate! We won!" Ron grinned, celebrating Harry's triumph over Malfoy in their first Quidditch match of the year.

Harry, however, was not nearly so excited. He couldn't help but focus on the fact that this had been his _last_ Quidditch match, at least in this timeline. And it was more than a little irritating how quickly he had managed to get back into everyone's good graces, just by winning a single, stupid match. They weren't willing to listen to him when he swore up and down that Parsel wasn't some dark and evil talent, but they were happy to cheer for him if he won at Quidditch.

"Hey, Ron. I – come up to the dorm, eh? I need to tell you something."

…

"You're _leaving_?" Ron's expression on hearing the news was scarily similar to Hermione's. "But, you can't!"

"Why not, Ron? Why can't I leave? I don't want to live here anymore. I'd rather go with my new family somewhere no one's ever heard of the Boy Who Lived and have a normal life as a normal wizard, who maybe just happens to be good at Quidditch, and no one's expecting to save the goddamn world at twelve years old!" He finished his little rant by punching his pillow in frustration.

"But – blimey, Harry. I didn't realize you hated us all so much."

"What?" Harry looked up to see a hurt expression on Ron's face. "I don't hate you – I hate being famous. I hate that Lockhart trails around insisting that I need to manage my fame, and your sister and her friends mooning after me and the fact that there's a whole book series of made up things I've supposedly done and how everyone hates me when I don't live up to what they think the Boy Who Lived should be! And the Riddles are giving me a chance to get _away_ from all that! I'm leaving at Christmas, and that's it."

Ron wilted. "I – I guess, if that's what you want…"

"It is," Harry said firmly. "It is what I want."

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _17 November, 1992_**

 _The Other End of the Stick_

"He's been weird since the summer, and you know it!"

"Yeah, but, Hermione, he's our friend."

"Yes, he _is_ our friend, and I'm _worried_ about him. I'm going to follow him."

Ron watched as Hermione crept out of the Common Room behind Harry, shaking his head. Somehow, he was sure this wasn't going to end well.

…

Harry approached the alcove now hiding the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets furtively, cursing himself for leaving his father's cloak in his trunk yet again. He could feel people staring at him as he slipped through the halls, his recent reprieve from the school's scorn over: Malfoy had reminded the Gryffindors after his Quidditch loss that Harry was a Parselmouth, and Ron, who never could keep a bloody secret, had let it slip to _everyone_ that Harry was planning on leaving Hogwarts at Christmas.

Harry had consequently been spending as much time in the Chamber and away from their hateful glares and disappointed head-shaking and sycophantic mooning as he could – so much so that Tom had moved the non-Slytherin entrance for him (though the fact that the man thought it was silly to have the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets in a girls' loo, anyway, might also have been a contributing factor). Tom wasn't always there, of course – only maybe three days in five – but Jory was much better company than most of the school at the moment.

With one last, hasty look around – he noticed on one paying him any particular attention – he leaned as casually as he could against the back wall of the little nook and firmly ordered the passage to _:_ _Open!:_ The wall melted away, and he meandered happily down the tunnel revealed toward the Chamber proper.

Hermione, concealed by a short-lived, but apparently decent Notice-Me-Not Charm, was left in the alcove, attempting to replicate the particular hiss that had opened the passage.

…

The young dragon, now called Bertha, emerged briefly from the enchanted flames which were her 'bed' to snuffle at Harry's robes and identify him as a non-threat before butting him, perhaps fondly, in the chest with her head, and curling back up in the fire. Exactly what Tom had done to her, Harry wasn't sure, but he knew he had to have done _something_ , because the dragon was much more docile now than she had been even as a hatchling, not to mention she was now at least five times as big as she was when she was 'kidnapped' and never seemed to eat. When he asked, the older wizard just grinned and said it was old magic, and he would teach Harry when Harry was older, partly because Maia had forbidden him to teach Harry anything illegal until Harry was at least fifteen, and magic to control dragons was _definitely_ illegal, but more because he said Harry had to work his way up to that kind of thing.

 _:Elder,:_ he called, the acoustics of the chamber allowing Parsel to carry far better than it did anywhere else, _:_ _Are you here?:_

 _:In the library!:_ floated back to him, accompanied by a very excited young basilisk. Harry was pretty sure Jory got bored with only Tom and Bertha for company.

After exchanging greetings with the snake and allowing him to coil around his shoulders instead of slithering on the cold floor (which Harry would have done even if Jory hadn't begged pathetically to be picked up), Harry made his way to the Chamber Library. Retrieving and repairing the books that belonged to the library had been something of a hobby for both Riddles over the summer. Harry thought that Tom was just as incapable of doing nothing as he mocked Maia over.

 _:What are you working on?:_ he asked as he entered the cozy, mage-lit room.

 _:The hibernation magics for World-Serpent.:_

 _:Hibernation magic?:_

Jory jumped in proudly to explain. _:_ _When you and Speaker and Speaker's Mate go back to the Speaker's nest, I will stay here and protect the Chamber and the teaching-place!:_

 _:What? Why can't you come with us? Elder? Why can't World-Serpent come to the nest with us?:_

Tom hesitated, giving Jory time to speak up again. _:_ _It's a very important job! Someone has to take care of the treasures of the Speakers, and I will do it!:_

 _:It is what World-Serpent was born for,:_ Tom confirmed.

 _:But won't you be lonely without us?:_ Harry asked the sapient snake.

Jory made the not-sound which expressed genuine amusement. _:_ _I will be hibernating. I will sleep and grow strong, and wake in the future, when the next Speaker arrives.:_

 _:But there_ are _no other Speakers,:_ Harry practically wailed. _:_ _If we leave, no one will come!:_

 _:There are no other speaker-people on this island,:_ Tom corrected him calmly, _:_ _But there are others in the world, and they will come in time.:_

 _:I will sleep for_ many _years,:_ Jory said, obviously pleased with the prospect, _:_ _And when I am wakened, I will learn how the world has changed!:_

The basilisk could not be convinced that his mission was anything but an honor and an adventure in the waiting, and Tom could not be convinced that it was anything less than necessary. Jory could not come back to the other universe with them. Harry was disconsolate. He had known he would have to leave Ron and Hermione behind, but somehow he hadn't realized that he would be losing his new serpent friend as well.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _6 December, 1992_**

 _The Beginning of the End of Albus Dumbledore_

"Ah, Poppy!"

The Mediwitch startled badly, not having heard the Headmaster's approach. "Albus? What can I do for you?"

"I've been feeling a bit under the weather this morning. You wouldn't happen to have a spare pepper-up, would you?"

Poppy smiled. Even the best and the brightest of wizards, it seemed, were not immune to the common cold. "Of course," she said, bustling around her desk. "We'll have you squared away in a jiff!"

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _10 December, 1992_**

 _"Can I go with you?"_

For the dozenth time since she had seen Harry disappear into the secret Parseltongue passage, Hermione found herself lurking in that same alcove, unable to let the mystery of what had happened to her best friend lie. She felt vaguely silly, but here she was, recalling the sounds she had heard and making various hissing noises at the wall as she leaned on it, in the hopes that she could mimic Harry's voice closely enough to enter and discover whatever was hidden behind it. It was better than just sitting around in the Common Room and pretending she didn't care that he was planning to leave her forever in less than two short weeks.

She wasn't really expecting it to work, so it took her rather by surprise when she fell through the suddenly-permeable stone.

…

Tom was roused from finalizing the plans for his dimension-hopping ritual by a very high-pitched shriek and Bertha roaring at an intruder, before Jory came to fetch him hissing something hysterical about 'the Speaker's Mate grown backwards.' He went to investigate, and couldn't help but snigger when he realized what the young basilisk had meant.

"Hello, Hermione. What brings you to the Chamber of Secrets?"

...

After a rather long and tedious explanation, during which Tom became exceedingly grateful he hadn't met _his_ Hermione until she was already a grown woman, it became clear that her curiosity had simply gotten the better of her. Or at least that's what Tom thought until she (quite suddenly) said, with a certain desperation, "Can – can I go with you? Harry's my only real friend!"

"Ah… wait here," Tom instructed. This was, he silently vowed, _not_ going to become his problem. Hermione was clearly better-suited to deal with her counterpart's emotional outbursts.

…

"NO! Absolutely not!" Young Hermione cowered before her elder counterpart's ire. "You have parents who love you _very_ much, and I will not take you away from them! You are perfectly capable of making new friends and learning magic and working to change the prejudice you so clearly hate about your new society! You have every reason to stay and make a life for yourself here! You will _not_ abandon all that to go chasing a boy you've known for a year and a half into an entirely different universe and time, just to satisfy your obsession and curiosity. I can't believe you would even suggest something so unutterably stupid! No. You are going to go back to your room and write your parents telling them what you just tried to do – maybe it will make you think about the consequences your thoughtless request might have had!"

"But I just wanted…" the girl attempted to defend herself tearfully.

"Oh, for the love of – Hermione! You are thirteen! There will be other boys! There will be other friends! You cannot just throw yourself blindly after anyone who gives you the bloody time of day."

"He s-saved my life! I won't abandon him!"

"Okay, now you're just being melodramatic. I know it hurts, but you have to let him do what's best for him, _and_ you have to stay here and do what's best for you as well!"

…

After seeing her younger counterpart back to the Castle proper, Hermione collapsed into a chair across from Tom. "I swear, I was never _that_ thoughtlessly impetuous."

"Blame Gryffindor," her husband said with a straight face.

"Oh, I do. Bloody terrible influence. If ever I had any doubts I was better off in Ravenclaw…"

Tom laughed.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _13 December, 1992_**

 _Rumors of an Impending Demise_

"Have you heard about the Headmaster?"

"That he was taken to St. Mungo's?"

"Wait – what? He's not sick, is he?"

"He is! My father's a healer. He says they have no idea what's wrong with him!"

"Is he going to be okay?"

"Well, not if they can't figure out why he's sick, is he?"

"Clarence! That's a horrible thing to say!"

"Well, it's true, innit?"

Snape hid a smile as he eavesdropped on the students in the Great Hall, all now eyeing the Headmaster's empty chair with trepidation. He had developed the poison himself – he was confident it would not be detected before _or_ after the old goat's death, and when the Healers failed to find a cause, they would excuse the death as natural. Great wizard or not, Dumbledore _was_ only human.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 _ **19 December, 1992**_

 _To Freedom and the Downfall of the Enemy_

 _:Farewell, World-Serpent! I will never forget you!:_ Harry was trying not to cry, and failing miserably.

 _:Farewell, Hatchling. I will tell the speakers of the future about you!:_ the young basilisk said happily, completely failing to understand why his young human friend was not happy, too. He flicked his tongue at the boy, one last time, memorizing his scent before coiling in the nest the Speaker had prepared for him.

 _:Sleep and grow strong,:_ Tom hissed, _:_ _That you may learn many things in your adventures to come.:_

 _:Yes, Speaker!:_

The hibernation magic settled over Jormungandr like the warmth of the sun, and he fell into a peaceful slumber. Tom led Harry out of the nest to find an overtly cheerful Snape waiting with Hermione in the sitting room area of the original Chamber.

He passed Tom a glass of champagne, and Hermione handed Harry a butterbeer. "The Old Goat is dead," Snape explained with what Harry might go so far as to call genuine _delight_ on his features.

Tom gave him his most pleased smirk. "To your freedom, then."

"And the downfall of your enemies," Snape returned.

Hermione rolled her eyes and muttered, " _Boys_ ," but she chinked her glass against theirs and drank the toast as well.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _21 December, 1992_**

 _Back to the Future_

"How did you get here in the first place?" Hermione asked, observing Tom's preparations for their return ritual curiously. It really was just as well he had come to fetch her. She was passable at ritual magic, but certainly no expert.

"I opened the Doorway and invoked Coyote to guide me to the other half of my soul," he grinned. "And _you_ thought doing the Marriage of Souls was a waste of time and effort."

His wife rolled her eyes. "No, I thought, and still do, actually, that it was bloody stupid to tie our lives together at such a fundamental level."

"Well, as you can see, time has proved me right," Tom said smugly. It was only the fact that they _were_ so closely bonded that had allowed him to find _his_ Hermione, in the infinite universes she might have disappeared to.

"Prat."

…

Sirius arrived at Riddle House promptly at noon, only too excited to leave this world behind him. "Hey, 'Mione, Tom, Harry," he said, grinning, before he noticed the fourth person, bound and gagged at the older wizard's feet. "Umm… Is that Fenrir Greyback?"

"You know him?" Harry asked, having just been introduced to the atrocities the werewolf had committed by Tom, who had been justifying the use of the man as a sacrifice to facilitate their crossing between universes.

"Everybody knows him, pup," Sirius said, pulling his godson back by the arm. "Get away from him, he's a killer and a pedophile!"

"Oh, good! So you won't mind that I'm planning to kill him?" Tom asked brightly.

"Umm…"

"Great, well, that's settled then!"

Hermione hid a smirk behind her hand. She didn't normally approve of using murder to power rituals if she could think of any other possible solution, but she would make an exception for truly horrible people. At least the worthless wolf would be useful in death.

…

"No, see, that's the clever bit – since I'm using the same sacrifice in both universes, the doors should line up perfectly. We'll step through the same time I jumped off from."

Hermione pulled Tom down by the hair into a rather desperate-looking kiss. "I love you when you're brilliant," she murmured when she finally pulled away. Harry and Sirius tried desperately to ignore their carrying-on, but failed miserably, the former very pink with embarrassment at the sight of his new parents snogging, while the latter watched with slightly more than friendly interest.

Tom caught him and winked, leading the animagus to flush just as badly as the second-year.

…

Hermione began to chant in Greek, a plea to the Powers of the Dark to open the Way Forward, to grant them a doorway. Tom's voice, lower and rougher, picked up the counterpoint, offering sacrifice to the Infernal Power, to Chaos and to Order, in exchange for their safe return to the universe in which they truly belonged.

The two-fold chant – plea and bargain, as old as the Gods of Olympus – reached a crescendo, and Tom, with a rather sadistic grin, applied a silver knife to the werewolf's neck.

Blood sprayed over the runes burnt into the dead lawn at the center of Riddle House's back garden, cleared of snow for the event. Where it fell, the runes lit briefly silver before flowing together to the center of the circle, and rising to form a misty portal.

The four joined hands to step through it, first Tom, then Harry, Sirius, and Hermione, the two who belonged in the universe they sought serving as book-ends for those who would be out of their proper place and time, ensuring the portal would not close prematurely and leave them behind. Greyback was abandoned to his fate as they walked forward as one, stepping through the misty veil of the Doorway without hesitation.

…

Frank Bryce was _not pleased_ to find, when he returned from his holiday trip, that the young Riddle couple had vanished entirely, leaving a dead man in the garden in the middle of some bloody cultist hocus-pocus. The only good thing was, this time he had an alibi for the murder, too right! Been out of the bloody country, he had. The police, as they had in the forties, cleared him of all charges, though he was beginning to think there was something… dark about the Riddle House. Cursed, maybe, even. Perhaps it would be best to move up to town, after all.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

 ** _21 December, 2010_**

 _"So you had a good vacation, then?"_

 _Mary Potter Universe_

Mary looked dubiously at the misty silver Doorway hanging in the middle of the Black Family Ritual Room, through which Tom had vanished several long moments prior. It was all well and good, she thought, to have agreed to participate in this ritual (rather against her better judgement, she might add), but she was beginning to realize she hadn't been told exactly how it was supposed to end.

"Just wait there," he had said.

"I'll be back with Hermione," he had said.

"It'll be fine," he had said.

Well, he wasn't the one staring at an ominous curtain of mist with the cooling body of a recently-dead werewolf at his feet. _He_ was the one who got to go on an adventure, following a Chaos-God into the Great Unknown between universes.

She sighed and took a seat on a small basalt altar-stone, wondering how long she could reasonably be expected to wait.

…

Several hours later, she woke to find the room rather more occupied than she had expected – Tom and Hermione had safely returned, along with a man who looked like a younger version of her godfather (no older than herself) and a child of eleven or twelve, with messy, dark hair and altogether too-familiar green eyes.

The boy seemed to be a bit in shock, most likely at the sight of Greyback's body lying very clearly dead before him, or perhaps at the blood spattered over the room to open the Doorway (which had, she noticed, disappeared, presumably when they returned). The Suspiciously Young Sirius-Lookalike confirmed her guess at his identity by grumbling something about blood sacrifice and _this thrice-cursed place_ and how it was like he had never left home at all. Tom was looking at her with a well-practiced expression of reproach (perfected over years of teaching), most likely for being so déclassé as to use the altar she was still sitting on for anything so mundane as a nap. It was Hermione, though, who raced over to pull her to her feet and into a rib-crushing hug.

"I didn't get a welcome like that," Tom grumbled.

"Oh, shut up, Tom. You woke me up by falling on me out of nowhere."

Mary laughed, finding it rather reassuring that some things never changed. "Who've you brought back with you?"

Hermione flushed slightly. "Well, um… don't be mad, but we might have adopted your counterpart." Mary was fairly sure her mouth literally fell open. "Harry?" The boy came forward, only slightly hesitantly. "This is Harry James Potter Riddle."

" _Without_ the dash," he added. "Um. Hi?"

"Hello," Mary managed, glaring over his head at Tom, who was looking altogether too innocent to be blameless.

"And we couldn't very well leave Sirius there while we took away the only person he had left to live for," Hermione continued with a winning smile. The man in question waved. Mary reluctantly waved back, before pinching the bridge of her nose in the classic Snape gesture.

"Welcome to the family?" she offered, wondering halfheartedly what this would mean for the Black family succession, or, hell, for the _Potter_ family succession. And those would likely be the _least_ of their problems. "Hey, Tom?"

"Yes, Mary?"

"You get to introduce Sirius to Snape. And Bellatrix. And… Other Sirius." The look on the older wizard's (newly younger?) face suggested he might not actually have given the plan of bringing extra people back much thought.

…

Hours later, after the new members of the twisted and knotted Potter/Riddle (Black) Family Tree had been introduced to the others in residence at Ancient House and given lunch and proper quarters, and left alone to sleep or have an existential crisis or whatever they liked, really, Tom and Hermione joined Mary in the library for a very strong drink.

She hardly dared to ask, but… "Is there… anything else I ought to know about your little adventure?"

"Wellll…" Tom grinned evilly. "We killed Voldemort and Dumbledore, and helped Snape escape Hogwarts, and killed the old Basilisk and replaced her with a new one."

"He also kidnapped a dragon for the Chamber of Secrets," Hermione added, when Tom paused for breath. "Remember 'Norbert?'"

Mary nodded mutely.

"Quite. And retrieved all the books that could be salvaged, so there's actually something there worth guarding. I got Hermione to go on a date with Dumbledore."

"I got Tom to quote Labyrinth."

"Hermione took the DADA post for a term. We adopted Harry, but you already know that."

"I gave your horrible aunt a scat fetish."

"You didn't tell me that!"

"It seemed appropriate, given her absurd obsession with cleanliness, and the way she treated Harry."

"I love it when you're vengeful."

"Oh! I found out that Tom's greatest desire is to destroy the world and then fight me to the death over what's left, that was fun."

"I said I'd kill you last! What more do you want from me, witch?"

Mary decided that was a good place to interrupt, as they seemed to be well and truly off topic. "So you had a good vacation, then?"

The couple met each other's eyes and shrugged.

"Pretty good, yeah," Tom agreed.

"I've had worse," Hermione smirked. "Though whether I come up with some horrible fate for Bellatrix rather depends on how much damage my absence has done to the political landscape over the past… five, six months?"

"Five. And I think Draco and I have held it together fairly well. So it's really just Harry and Padfoot Junior I need to know about?" she asked to verify, still concerned about what damage control she might have to implement as the Head of House for both families in question. "No other problems for me to deal with?"

"I stole the Philosopher's Stone, too," Tom grinned, a flash of red glinting between his fingers as he held it up to the firelight. "But I don't know that that's a _problem_ , _per se_ …"

Mary sighed, foreseeing many horrifying experiments in their future. "Just… try to keep each other in check? That's literally _all_ I ask of you. Just… scrape together enough common sense between the two of you to…"

She trailed off as they fixed her with twin smirks, the unholy light of Ravenclaw in their eyes.

"Not get caught?" Tom asked.

Mary nodded reluctantly.

"That's really all you can reasonably expect," Hermione said consolingly.

"Oh, stuff it. You're just as bad as he is."

Sometimes, she found, mad-scientist cackling really did count as the last word.

* * *

 **[I kind of really like this ridiculously unlikely Possible Future. I may have to return to it someday, even if it does end up being an enormously out of character deviation from the end of the series. If anyone's wondering, I am still working on Mary Potter Book 3, and yes, I have been making progress! I tentatively expect to finish it over the summer, aiming to begin posting in September.]**


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